


Calamus

by ilovemywife



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), rdr2 - Fandom
Genre: Gen, High Honor Arthur Morgan, M/M, Time Travel Fix-It, affection starved, camp work horse dont get no affection. :(, closeted bi arthur, everything starved, no TB, pov switching, touch starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:17:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilovemywife/pseuds/ilovemywife
Summary: Arthur liked to think plenty of things about Charles Smith with the firm knowledge that they would remain between him and the crisp paper of his journal.





	1. In paths untrodden

He was beautiful, in the midday’s sun.

He was beautiful in the dead of night when only the moon shining through the trees overhead dappled upon the planes of his face; he was beautiful in that short, precious span of time that was twilight when the sun kissed the horizon like a familiar lover and took to dancing in his warm, dark eyes.

He was so beautiful as to make Arthur think he could never properly capture it in his journal. No matter how many times he had tried and tried and tried and failed (some attempts remaining in the book for posterity while others were ripped from its binding), there was something about Charles that was impossible to put to paper.

Perhaps it was something that extended beyond the physical; something that truly  _ couldn’t  _ be put to paper. Not by such an unskilled hand, anyway.

Closing his journal with a gentle sigh, he held it loosely as he leaned on the crates backing his cot, watching the object of his endeavors at the camp table. His curled hair cascaded down his back in a loose ponytail and he was resolutely ignoring every attempt at conversation Uncle made as they ate. Their voices carried just barely enough for Arthur to eavesdrop.

“Charles! How you been, bud? Do anything fun lately?”

“No.”

“Huh. See... anything interesting lately?”

“No.”

“Well,” Uncle paused. “Uh...You heard any good jokes lately?”

“...Sure.”

“Well, that’s great!"

“...”

“...Mind...Sharing it with me?”

“No.”

Arthur stifled a smile as he averted his eyes, fingers drumming steadily against his journal’s soft, worn leather binding. He liked to think that he could coax more of a conversation out of the stoic man. That perhaps Charles’ eyes would light up just so, and the corners of his mouth would raise in the barest hint of a smile when Arthur sat next to him or invited him out hunting.

Liked to think plenty of things about Charles Smith with the firm knowledge that they would remain between him and the crisp paper of his journal.

Easing it back open with new resolve, he found a clear page for one last drawing. Charles was illuminated perfectly by the brilliant afternoon sun, his long eyelashes fluttering as he stared disinterestedly into his bowl of stew. The scar ripping its way up his cheek almost threw its own shadow and his hands moved slowly enough that Arthur could get a good grasp of their form. Arthur began sketching in wide, sweeping strokes, eyes flicking from the paper to his model.

The gentle, delicate motions Charles’ hands cycled through as he ate belied the strength of the man that possessed them, a strength that Arthur had both witnessed and experienced first-hand as Charles lifted 300 pound deer carcasses on a single shoulder and supported Arthur himself with burning hands every time he got a little too drunk during festivities.

Nevermind that sometimes he got a little too drunk for that singular purpose.

Scratching the side of his nose with the pencil, Arthur shook off his idle thoughts and focused on drawing. It had been peaceful lately, other than the retrieval of one blackout drunk Reverend, and everyone was relaxing as they settled into their new temporary home. The ambient noise of the camp reduced to a pleasant hum in the background of his perception- the warm, heavy afternoon air encompassing Horseshoe Overlook lent itself to the transformation of sound to an almost blanket of stimulation; laughter and light-hearted bickering between Karen and Tilly melded with the sound of songbirds chattering overhead melded with the rustling of trees exchanging secrets on the wind. 

Absently, Arthur remembered the trail of hair that traced from Charles' arm to the back of his hand- though he was too far to make it out from his tent, he debated adding it to the portrait forming in his lap simply because he knew it was there.

Before he could decide, a familiar, rasping voice jarred him from the privacy of his mind.

“Hey, Arthur!”

The illusion of privacy in the open air tent broken, he abruptly snapped the journal shut, scowling as he turned to face the younger man leaning into his personal space.

“What you want, Marston,” Arthur’s fingers again drummed against the journal’s soothing leather, more irate than earlier.

“Can’t you see a man’s busy?”

“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Morgan! And here I was, thinkin’ you was just preoccupied with Mr. Smith over there’s profile for the fifth time today,”

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur repeated himself, letting a bit of the venom he used during collection jobs seep into his words.

“What do you  _ want _ , Marston.”

Raising his hands in mock surrender before he could further irritate his brother, Marston coughed his snicker away before saying, “Dutch wants to see you ‘bout somethin’ or other. I don’t think it’s too serious, considerin’ we just landed here, but you’ll want to make your way over to his tent sometime today, Mr. Artist, sir.”

Arthur quickly got up and tried for Marston’s collar even as the little shit ducked out of reach, defensively backing away from the crates that separated them.

Raising a hand with an accusatory point that fell somewhat flat considering the quickly growing distance between them, Arthur spat out, “Watch yourself, boy. You forget that I can assuredly make it look like you just decided to wander off again for another year or two.”

John rolled his eyes, mirroring Arthur’s scowl and waving a hand reproachfully as he walked away. 

“Sorry, then. Didn’t think you’d take it so damn serious.”

Arthur sat back heavily onto his cot as he glared at Marston’s retreating back.  _ Deep breaths, Morgan. _

The ambience of the camp again made itself known as he calmed down, massaging the back of his neck with his free hand, journal discarded upon the bed. Jack shrieking in joy as he found what must have been a particularly large bug and his mother shrieking in decidedly not joy as he showed off his prize. Sadie sitting silently with Mary Beth, who was trying to get her to say more than three words at a time. The dull, heavy falls of an axe splitting firewood.

Leaning forward on his knees, he scrubbed at his eyes and slowly ran a hand down his face, lingering on his beard- past due for a trim. Sitting in a warm camp for a few days had been nothing but kind to him with the stew pot full (courtesy of him and Charles), clean air and clear view boosting everyone’s morale.

But, truthfully, anything would’ve been better than those damn mountains. Everyone freezing their extremities off, the gang members they lost on the way through, finding Mrs. Adler in the worst way to find anyone; cold, scared and short one spouse. 

Despite the genuine desire and need to recoup from Colter, there were still the beginnings of that itch of restlessness, of _ I need to be out  _ **_doin’_ ** _ somethin’ _ drilled into him from childhood beginning to ache in his bones and he knew that he’d have to go out hunting down either food or money soon enough.

Newly tasked with the mission of making himself presentable enough to cause mayhem, Arthur scrubbed his face one last time and decided a trim would work well enough.

Not even bothering with a soapy lather as he set up at his shaving barrel, he stared at his reflection, pulling the skin of his jaw taut as a well-practiced straight razor cut away short layers of beard. It was a meditative activity in its simplicity and Arthur got caught up in it, staring at himself head-on every so often to make sure nothing was being unevenly trimmed. He continued on peacefully for a couple of minutes until he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

Looking up from the smudged mirror, he was met with Charles staring directly at him, leaning easily on an elbow, face cupped in his hand. He didn’t look particularly happy but he didn’t look angry either; he was just staring with that same cool, somewhat interested expression that he had been adopting around Arthur more and more recently.

Arthur faltered as they made what was almost eye contact and with that single moment of shock, a mixture of surprise, apprehension, and embarrassment, was rewarded with a newly bleeding fixture on his face.

“Shit! Goddamnit!”

A few fat drops of blood had already hit the wood, seeping into the grain with the promise of a permanent stain, razor discarded in an embarrassing fumble onto the well trod ground at his feet.

Arthur continued swearing to and at himself as he grabbed for the nearest piece of cloth and crushed it against the bleeding wound, trying to staunch the flow. Grimacing as he realized it was past due for a clean of its own, he could only hope he wouldn’t give himself a hair splinter or infect his fucking shaving cut.

What was he, a fourteen year old using a razor for the first time? He kept the cloth firm against the cut (thankfully, he didn’t hit an artery; it would stop bleeding on its own in a minute or two) as he walked across camp to the barrel of freshwater set up by Pearson’s wagon.

Pearson barely looked up from where he was carving a leg of venison at his set up, calling out teasingly to Arthur as he walked by, "I saw that! Don't get any blood on the produce, Mr. Morgan!"

Not gracing him with more than a grunt in reply, Arthur busied himself with washing the blood out of his beard when, again, he felt the hairs on his the back of his neck hackle and surfaced to, again, find Charles staring at him. Although this time he was much closer.

“Hello, Mr. Smith! What can I do for you on this fine afternoon?”

Arthur gave a pained smile and gestured vaguely at the entire camp as he spoke, bloody water running down his cheek in rivulets. Charles’ eyebrows raised along with his hand to mirror where Arthur’s cheek was cut. It was directly opposite of his own scar that Arthur had been so delicately detailing not ten minutes earlier.

“You, ah, have something there. Feeling ok?”

“Oh, I’m peachy. Just a scratch, nothin’ to be worried about.”

A beat passed; Arthur was trying to maintain his smile as bloody water gently dripped on his white shirt. A couple of the camp’s chickens ventured closer from the coop Arthur had gotten them, clucking gently and gathering around his boots.

Cocking his head, Charles graced him with that small, blink and you miss it smile and Arthur almost lost his knees out from under him right into the barrel.

“Well, that’s good. Y’know, that slice looks just clean enough that you may end up with another scar. Maybe we’ll even match,” Charles smiled as he adjusted the roll of his sleeve, bringing it above his elbow, and Arthur’s eyes flit down to the hair he never got around to drawing. “I noticed Mr. Marston bothering you, so I took it upon myself to check in and make sure all was well.”

“That’s mighty kind of you,” Arthur chuckled as he wiped his face off and dabbed at his freshly coagulating cut, gently shooing the chickens away with indignant squawks. “I was about to head over to Dutch’s tent and see what he wants from me. Don’t know if it’ll be that interesting, but you’re more than welcome to join. He’ll likely just tell me to go on out and find some money.”

“Well, I’ve got a mind to do the same, so might as well go together.”

They had barely rounded Pearson’s wagon before Dutch, impatiently pacing in front of his tent, caught sight of them and herded Arthur into his tent.

Boots clicking against the raised wooden floor, Arthur tipped his hat at Molly where she was preening in a small compact mirror.

“Ms. O’Shea.”

“Arthur,” She smiled curtly without lifting her eyes from her reflection and continued to dab color onto her lower lip.

“Arthur! I’ve been waiting for you! What happened to your face?”

Before he could get a chance to explain away the fresh cut that probably  _ would _ end up as a new scar, Dutch furrowed his brow and waved in the air between them, as if to clear away the beginnings of any conversation that could arise. “It doesn’t matter! Now, I know you already went and retrieved our dear old Reverend, and you’ve done excellent work around the camp with Pearson and that, heh,  _ O’Driscoll _ , but we need money, Arthur. Talk to Strauss, he has a couple poor bastards he caught and needs paying back on.”

Even as Dutch buttered Arthur up, he shifted uncomfortably, feeling the request that was coming. He looked away with a barely there flinch and disgusted sigh when Strauss was finally mentioned.

“Dutch,” Arthur stepped closer, lowering his voice and glancing back at the entrance where Charles was standing, running a thumb down the blade of his knife. He shifted on his feet again as he turned back, lip curling as his hand rested on his belt, “You KNOW what I think about havin’ to do the dirty work for that money lendin’-”

Raising a placating hand, Dutch stopped him mid-sentence.

“Arthur I know you... dislike working with Strauss, believe me, I do too!" He soothingly smoothed out the somewhat damp front of his shirt, eyes catching for just a moment on the new pink stains, "But you need to understand that it’s legal,  _ clean  _ money and we need as much of that as we can get out here. Go talk with him. And, uh, son? You got somethin’ smudged on your face.”

Arthur walked out of the tent angrily cleaning graphite off his face with the same bloodstained cloth that had been gripped in a white knuckled fist throughout the entire conversation. The phonograph began playing a scratchy imitation of opera as he scrubbed, perhaps with more force than was duly needed.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Smith, for not tellin’ me I had pencil all over my nose at any point.”

Arthur continued for a couple moments before he turned to face Charles, raising his eyebrows for confirmation that he was clean at last.

Charles' hand came up to gently grip at Arthur's chin, slowly turning his face either way as he gave him a once over. He let his touch linger for a second before nodding approvingly and saying, “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Morgan. I was distracted by that bold new cut you styled into your beard.”

Charles grinned as Arthur's hands twitched at his side, unsure of how to quite respond to the contact.

Sparing him from having to comment, Charles motioned half heartedly over to where Strauss was diligently balancing books on people he’d lent into an early grave.

“Shall we go see what the good doctor wants from us?”

Carefully touching his tender jaw where Charles' fingers had been moments before, Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t gotta come with me on debt collections, you know. I’m big ‘n’ scary enough to do that well on my own, as I have often been told.”

“Ah, but Mr. Morgan, what’s better than one big, scary man to a debtor that’s hiding something?” Conspiratorially putting an arm around Arthur’s shoulder, Charles dragged him in close with a stage whisper of, “ _ Two _ big, scary men.”

Arthur tried very hard not to let the tickle of Charles’ breath bother him. It was a valiant effort that ultimately failed with an awkward laugh and shake to make him let go, the first dustings of embarrassment painting his face; luckily enough, he was already rubbed raw and the blush was (mostly) disguised by his attempts at cleaning himself of blood and pencil.

“Well then, Mr. Smith. Since you so obviously want to join me on what's to be a wonderful day out, lead the way. The payout’ll be smaller for each of us, but it’s never much with Strauss anyway.”

A tight smile on his face, Charles clapped Arthur on the back before saying, “Gladly.”

☼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDpmKZG9ddU


	2. Scented herbage of my breast

_ One week prior _

☼

Charles was on lookout duty. This wasn’t anything new- he didn’t mind the work and wordlessly took on other people's shifts when they either forgot or deliberately skipped out on it. It was peaceful out in the forest, his patrol route just far enough away to barely hear any of the conversations that were sleepily trickling to an end, but not quite far enough to block out the crackling of the fire on the camps outskirts and the shifting of restless horses. It left him alone with his thoughts for the most part, keeping track of who went in and out, admonishing anyone that came back at an especially tender hour. It was peaceful. 

Usually peaceful, anyway.

When he heard rustling too heavy to be a rabbit just a bit further out than he could see in the dark trees, he readied his rifle against a steady shoulder, looked down the sights and called out, “Who’s there?”

Met with only a phlegmy cough in response, he kept the weapon raised. Their camp had never been attacked and he doubted the first successful perpetrator would sound like that, but he hadn’t yet been killed by being too cautious.

Again, “Who’s there? Answer, or I’ll shoot.”

The subtle noises of the forest had suddenly halted into dead silence, leaving only Charles and his rifle aiming blindly into the darkness.

The retching cough that followed almost made him feel sorry for the poor bastard it belonged to, before a familiar voice reached his ears.  
“S’me,” A hacking spit. “Charles, it’s me.”

He slowly lowered his rifle, eyes widening in disbelief as Arthur emerged from behind a tree. Another man was standing a respectable distance behind him and Charles only got a barest glance of a vivid port wine birthmark splattered across his face before he turned to give the two some privacy.

Arthur slowly walked closer with his hands raised, but still maintained distance between them. He was thin. Alarmingly thin. The moon burst through cloud cover and illuminated Arthur in what would usually be a gentle, buttery light but seemed only harsh and unnatural now, throwing intense shadows on his emaciated face.

His red stained sclera and prominent burst blood vessels beneath the thin skin of his purplish eye bags were a far cry from the Arthur that Charles had seen leave camp not three days ago, with well wishes and the hope for a speedy return. 

Charles dropped his rifle altogether as he quickly stepped forward, reaching out to support Arthur as if afraid he would collapse in on himself, like a shoddy tower of cards built at the poker table by a man who had had more drink than he could handle. Even as he stepped forward, Arthur stepped back, keeping the distance between them constant with a pained smile painted on his fever reddened lips.

“Arthur, what- what in God’s name happened? You’ve only been gone for three days, this is- Jesus Christ, should I go get Dutch? Ms. Grimshaw?” Charles started to turn back to camp, keeping wide eyes plastered on Arthur, trying to take stock of any visible injuries and pinpoint what exactly could have happened to the man to reach such a state in a single outing.

“Don’t! Don’t. Charles, it’s okay,” Arthur winced as Dutch was mentioned and suppressed a cough as he self consciously adjusted his suspenders, now acutely aware of how thin he’s gotten. How his belts tightest setting didn’t keep the straw man together anymore. 

“I’m sorry but you- you can’t tell Dutch,” Another deep seated cough that came away red this time. “Or Ms. Grimshaw. You can’t tell anyone. You can’t tell  _ me _ .”

He let the words hang in the air between them, forest still dead silent, perhaps bearing witness to an exchange fraught with meaning that it could not understand. The moon retreated back behind the clouds, as if realizing that this was a private conversation, plunging the two men back into shadow.

The crackling of the campfire was stark in the unnatural silence, logs popping indifferently in the evening.

“Arthur, I don’t understand. You left and you’re back early and you look like- like-”

“Like the contents of Pearson’s pot after Sean went out buckshotting rabbits? Yeah, I know. I can’t do anything about this,” He smiled weakly as he gestured at himself with a blood stained hand, “But I’m glad that you’re the one out here- that you’re the one I found. I don’t know how to properly explain this all that well but- you saw that man back there, with the red mark on his face?”

Charles nodded vacantly, momentarily straining to get another glimpse of the man further back in the brush before his eyes came back to Arthur's bloodshot ones.

“He’s- I don’t rightly understand it myself but he says he’s some sort of time traveler. I didn’t believe him, but he owed me a favor after I gathered some carvings flung cross the country for him and I thought, why the hell not I'll take him up on it and now here- here I am.”

Arthur was looking pleadingly at the space between Charles’ eyes, gripping the strap of his satchel with an almost imperceptibly shaking hand.

“Here I am.”

“Here you are. What… happened to you, Arthur?”

“What happens to us all, Charles. I’m dying. Just in a slower and more drawn out fashion than I expected. I had wanted it to be somethin’ fast and.. Relatively painless, I guess. A clean head shot maybe, or if it came to it, a hangin’. Something at least halfway noble. Dignified. But death didn’t come for me as I had planned.”

Arthur smiled crookedly as he stared over Charles’ shoulder at the sleeping camp he was guarding. It was peaceful. So peaceful.

A peace that was suddenly broken by a tired voice calling out through the vegetation, “Hey! Mr. Smith! You okay over there? I thought I heard something,”

Charles glanced over in the direction of the other man on night watch and then back to Arthur, holding up a hand for silence.

“All clear, Mr. Escuella. Thought I saw a ghost, I guess.”

“Well,” Javier laughed through a yawn, “give us a shout if a ghost that can hurt anyone shows up.”

Charles hummed as Arthur stifled another coughing fit, warily keeping the distance that he so wanted maintained this time.

His eyes had adjusted to the scant light that shone through the cloud cover and he used it to look over Arthur again and again. His clothes hung loosely off his broad, gaunt frame and the urge to push forward and physically check for injuries that could be hidden underneath them was almost overpowering. Still, Charles respected the space separating them, hands flexing uselessly at his side as Arthur shook with coughs, hand curling into his shirt as if to claw out the sickness so obviously deeply embedded in his lungs.

When it subsided, Arthur smiled, a bloody, yellow thing.

“You know, I actually did find a ghost. She was wandering around in Bluewater Marsh. Sad, sad thing. Maybe I’ll end up like her, huh, Charles?”

Charles stared at the man in front of him, still not fully processing what was going on. The forest was tentatively coming back to life around them, the soft coo of an owl highlighting every ragged breath Arthur struggled to take. He seemed content to stand there in silence, staring at the camp behind them with something indecipherable shining in his eyes. 

He suddenly broke the silence with a hushed, “Charles, I’m sorry to put this on you but I gotta go. I gotta go back, because they,” he gestured at the camp, “need me. I don’t know if what I can do will matter, but they need me and I need to do everything I can while I still can. I’m going to give you something,” Arthur reached into his satchel, taking out a familiar book with the ease that suggested having done it countless times before. He held it tightly in both hands, close to his chest, thumbs stroking self soothing circles on the cover. 

Faltering, Arthur's mouth opened and closed silently a couple of times as he tried to find the right words.

“I’m glad it was you, Charles." He said softly. "I tried to choose a day you’d be out here and I’m glad I was right. This has everything that happened to me and the gang in it,”

Arthur held it out by a corner in the dead space between them, careful not to allow for any actual contact between them.

“What happened to me, to us, to everyone. I want you to read it and understand it. And maybe you can change things.”

Charles hesitated for a second, eyes darting from the book to Arthur, before he reached out and accepted it. Arthur’s hand fell limply to his side as if suddenly relieved of a great weight; his broad shoulders were bowed and his head cocked just the slightest bit to the left.

“I think… I think I’ll miss you the most, Charles. John, certainly, I’d give my life for him right now, but you? You’re something else. Always so driven by good. Never afraid to call me out on any of the bullshit I did when I was panicking and doin’ my best to fulfill Dutch’s wishes,” He wheezed out what almost could have been a laugh. “In the end, I think you were the best of us.” He shifted on his feet, taking in short difficult breaths and staring steadfastly between Charles’ eyes. Crickets were starting to sing again, their melodies mixing with the popping of the campfire and the sleepy rustling of wind through dry grass and everything began sounding for all the world like a regular night on patrol. 

“Stick around me for a while, Charles. Just long enough to make sure I don’t go to Downes’ farm alone. To make sure I don’t do some fool shit that gets me killed before I can help everyone else. And if you want to kill that rat Micah, I encourage it.”

Arthur smiled hollowly and stared at the book in Charles’ hands, wiping at the blood staining his lips with the back of his hand.

“Read through that and just...don’t let me see you doin' it, and don’t let it make you think less of me. Please.”

Arthur’s eyes were shining again as he gave a tight lipped smile and made the best approximation of eye contact he could manage. He started forward as if to give Charles a pat on the shoulder but stopped himself, settling for hooking his thumbs through the loops of his belt. He stared at Charles as if cataloging his every feature, and Charles readjusted his grip on the journal, cocking his head as he met his gaze.

“Thank you, Mr. Smith.”

And with that, Arthur Morgan turned around and walked until the night swallowed him. 

Charles stared after him, eyes wide. Shaking off whatever stupor overtook him, he started to follow, looking for Arthur, more and more questions building up, dancing on the tip of his tongue, but was only met with darkness and an oddly silent forest once more.

☼

Charles finished his patrol with no further incidents. That was a good thing, considering he could barely think straight with all that had happened in the span of 10 minutes.

Arthur Morgan, more dead than alive, coming to him in the dead of night coughing up blood and talking about dying for a man Charles had seen him display nothing but animosity for. 

Arthur Morgan, avoiding even touching him directly and staring at the sleeping camp as if it was something that he desperately wanted but was being denied. 

Arthur Morgan, handing him his trust with the journal that he didn’t let anyone so much as read over his shoulder into, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The sun was barely breaking over camp when he got off shift, songbirds hard at work trying (and failing) to make sure everyone was as awake as they were, if not as chipper. Seeing as the birds had not accomplished their task on one of the people they should've, he nudged Karen awake with the butt of a rifle to take her shift.

Robotically, he walked to his tent and laid down stiffly on his bedroll, back flanked by a snoring Bill, and held the journal he had been given in an unforgiving grip. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the residual warmth Arthur had left on its worn leather cover- proof that he was really there and not a figment of an overworked and under rested imagination. 

That he had been there, half in the grave, glad to have found Charles on watch. 

Charles laid there, unable to sleep but unwilling to look into the book he had been given; it still felt like such a major breach of...not trust, perhaps, but privacy.

Of  _ I shouldn’t be looking at this, even if I’ve been given permission. _

He jostled restlessly on his bedroll as he went over what happened again and again, stopping only when Bill growled over his shoulder, “If you don’t let me get some damn sleep, Mr. Smith, I- I don’t know what I’ll do, but I do know it won’t be  _ pleasant. _ ”

Charles scoffed as he sat up, “You couldn’t take me in a fight if I was half dead, you drunken fool.”

Bill snarled as he buried his face in his thin pillow, vindictive but utterly limp threats streaming out of his mouth as Charles got up and walked aimlessly towards the center of camp.

Not many people were awake; Javier was freshly asleep in his bedroll, already having woken Lenny to switch guard shifts. Pearson  _ should  _ have been up, readying to provide the camp at least some semblance of breakfast, but he had been particularly taken by whiskey the night prior. Jack was firmly nestled in a tired Abigail’s arms- she was half awake but loathe to move with such a tender charge assigned to her. Only Mrs. Adler was truly up, already silently brewing coffee at the stew pot.

Poor Mrs. Adler. A fine woman that fell into the worst of circumstances to have to run with a gang like this.

Charles scrubbed at his face, hearing and feeling the rasp of his stubble as he sat at the camp table and gave up on the distant dream that was sleep. Dust still gathered in his eyes, but whenever he closed them all that danced on the lids were vignettes of a cruelly thin Arthur Morgan, more bloodshot and distorted with every blink, rattling breaths filling his ears and the harsh smell of copper inhabiting his senses.

To see the man he had watched go healthy and whole not less than four days ago with strength and weight suddenly removed in spades was a shock enough in its own right. To have him arrive like that and then give him his journal? Charles itched to confide in someone about it, to share the book before even opening it alone, but knew that at best they’d think he was pulling a cruel joke and at worst that he was crazy. 

And so, he was at an impasse. It was something that he couldn’t think properly through on no sleep, and so he settled on the simplest option: stow the journal in Taima’s saddlebag and deal with it later. 

Not avoiding it, simply waiting until he was better mentally equipped to deal with it. Seeing his own Arthur come home alive and well would probably be step one: keeping in mind the other Arthur’s request to stay near him and not let him go to Downes' farm (he’d have to remember that name) alone would be step two. 

Easy enough.

☼

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death is beautiful from you, (what indeed is finally beautiful except  
> death and love?)


	3. Not heaving from my ribb'd breast only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Arthur share a meal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not heaving from my ribb'd breast only,  
> Not in sighs at night in rage dissatisfied with myself,  
> Not in those long-drawn, ill-supprest sighs,  
> Not in many an oath and promise broken,  
> Not in my wilful and savage soul's volition,

Arthur was more than happy to have Charles ride alongside him. 

He didn’t ask for the company, but didn’t mind it neither. Not if it meant getting to spend more time with Mr. Smith. Something about not looking a gift horse in the mouth. 

In the spirit of not chasing away a blessing, Arthur hurried the goings of things and the two men quickly raided Pearson’s wagon, saddled up and began making their way to the first debt- a woman named Lilly Millet late on her repayment last seen at Emerald Ranch.

They rode due east at an easy pace, enjoying the last few hours of the day in companionable silence, neither man demanding anything from the other. Arthur was in the lead, better knowing the lay of the land from his somewhat compulsive wandering in search of scores.

Clearing his throat and spitting off the side of his horse, Arthur turned his head back to say, "So, Mr. Smith. You said you had a mind to get into some trouble yourself- what leads are you followin'?"

Charles clicked his tongue and spurred Taima forward so that they were riding side by side, reins held loosely in a hand.

"Hmm," he scratched at the side of his nose, blinking through the early evening haze. "Heard there was a homestead worth robbing out West. Just a bit north of Strawberry, I think. Some old lady running arms deals."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, "That's quite a ways off in the opposite direction from where we'll be goin', Mr Smith."

"So it seems."

Arthur shifted in his saddle, briefly taking off his hat to wipe his brow. Despite how the sun was setting, the heat only seemed to intensify into an almost visible shimmer surrounding them, the usual Heartlands breeze noticeably absent.

"You don’t wanna split up, then? Cover more ground?"

Arthur was looking steadfastly forward, one hand playing at the supple leather covering his saddlehorn.

Charles urged Taima a bit closer, enough that their stirrups almost clinked against each other and she chuffed at Orville’s snout.

"You want me to go?"

Arthur continued to look forward thoughtfully, his hand coming up to gingerly feel his scabbing cut.

"Well, I ain’t asking you to come along, but I most certainly won't make you leave." Arthur turned and smiled briefly at Charles as he spurred Orville into a canter. 

Charles matched his pace, a curious grin playing on his lips as he tried to catch Arthur's eyes.

Seeing how Charles was keeping up with him, Arthur tipped his hat and said with some small amount of melodrama, "If you’ll grant me the grace of your company, Mr. Smith, I will gladly take it."

Charles laughed out loud at that, a clear, ringing sound almost swept away by air beginning to whistle in their ears, hands gripping his reins just a bit tighter.

“I don't know that I have much grace to grant, Mr. Morgan, but all that I do, you’re welcome to.”

Arthur’s back straightened in his saddle and his smile faltered before turning into something artificial. He hadn’t expected an answer, and the one he got rocked him for reasons he couldn’t quite place. His eyes bounced between the road, his saddlehorn and Charles before he grunted and spurred Orville into a gallop, barely looking over his shoulder to call back, “It’s just a bit further to Twin Stack Pass. We can stop there so we don't have to ride through the night.” 

Charles stared after Arthur’s retreating back as he kicked Taima into the same pace, eyes eventually settling on Orville's slightly feathered fetlocks. Looping the reins in one hand, he stretched the scar tissue from his burn with half a smile and contemplated their exchange. He hadn’t said anything much different to what Arthur had, but his face had still reddened the slightest bit that couldn’t be ascribed to the setting sun. 

They continued in silence, each man left to his own thoughts. The ride was easy enough, despite the midsummer's heat- the ground was sparsely grassy, compact and easy on the horses, even as they strayed off the worn road to quietly catch something for supper. They rode into a dried out field, Arthur’s nose scrunching at the abandoned oil derrick’s charred remains interrupting the horizon. 

Sniffing in disgust, he stopped his horse and reached into his satchel to feed her an oatcake, “Plenty of game around here, Mr. Smith. Rabbit, white tail deer and the skies fulla bird- they’re a bit on the stringy side though, so I wouldn't recommend it. What you feel like huntin’?”

Charles leaned forward on Taimas neck, petting her in broad strokes as she gently tossed her head to ward off a persistent fly. Frowning at the thin film of dust that came off her and coated his hand, he took a moment to consider the options.

“We don’t need a whole deer, the meat on one of those could last camp a couple weeks. Birds in this area are stringy, tough and a pain in the ass to debone as you said. That leaves us with rabbits. Rabbits that I think could double as a refresher course on archery for you, Mr. Morgan.” Charles smiled cautiously, watching Arthur for a reaction as he spoke out his thought process, slowly rubbing the fine dirt on his hand between his fingers.

Arthur nodded, rolling his shoulders as he sat up straight.

“Rabbits it is. A couple of them’ll set us right with a bit extra to tide us over in the mornin’. Grass round here is sparse, as I'm sure you can tell, but the horses’ll be fine for grazin’,” Arthur dismounted as he spoke, drawing his bow and a quiver of modified small game arrows off Orville. He looked down the length of one, checking how true it would shoot and that the head was sharp enough to kill instead of maim as Charles readied his own supplies.

With a smack on the rump and a cry of, “Yah!” Orville bolted and Arthur walked into the slightly charged dead space separating them.

“Ready?"

Charles nodded wordlessly as he arranged his own arrows and turned to face Arthur. Something about the way they were standing with that small amount of distance between them jolted him back to last week; he suddenly thought about the journal burning hot in Taima’s saddlebag, ready to ignite whatever fragile thing they had just barely begun to cultivate. He sent her off with a particularly strong wish for safety from any would be thieves and tried to shrug the eerie déjà vu. 

“Let's go.”

☼

Arthur was still...not tense, perhaps, but apprehensive. He found himself stealing surreptitious glances at Charles as they walked quietly through the dust and foliage, the soft crunching of earth beneath their feet and a short, repetitive twang from fingers plucking nervously at his taut bowstring the only sounds as they searched for a trail. 

Had he been too obvious? Charles had had such a sudden change of demeanour in just the past week, suddenly acting much more...something. Than in the entire half year they’d known each other. It wasn’t unwelcome nor unwanted, but still he found himself shying away, flinching from every touch and deeply thankful of the practiced silence required for hunting.

So preoccupied was he with appreciating the silence and attempting to sort his thoughts, that he almost tripped over a stationary Charles who was examining prints pressed into the shallow dirt. 

Charles looked back at him curiously as Arthur regained his balance, boots scuffing in the dirt.

“We got a trail. Follow it.”

Arthur regained his composure and sniffed as he crouched, shoulder to shoulder with the other man. He barely leaned against him as he searched for the next set of prints, eyes flitting once to Charles’ face to see a small, surprised smile. Emboldened, he maintained their small point of contact, taking a bit longer than necessary to point out a faint trail marked by crushed grass and whispering, “This way.”

☼

Setting up their camp just shy of the massive cliffs guarding the road of Twin Stack Pass was easy. The ground was flat and rocky with no brush nearby in danger of ignition via a stray spark; the horses could wander and graze on shrubbery that wouldn't be sweet enough to make them sick and while the men didn't have much cover, they could clearly see and or shoot at anyone that would approach them. 

While Charles finished erecting their tents, Arthur went through the motions of butchery, setting to work skinning and segmenting the two black tailed jackrabbits they had caught; Charles’ shot was clean through the head while Arthur's handle on the weapon was still not quite confident enough to aim anywhere other than the flank.

Warm, viscous blood lay in a puddle a bit away from camp where they had left the rabbits to bleed out, the hot, humid air somehow keeping it from fully seeping into the ground. It lay there coagulating, slightly wet despite the dirt they had kicked on top of it in an effort to expedite the process. 

Arthur worked to hollow out the carcasses abdominal cavities, taking care not to rupture any of the organs that he knew would make the meat taste particularly gamey. Offal was set aside for the birds as strong, decisive hands broke joints, revealing fleshy cartilage and tendon to be sliced apart with confident strokes of a hunting knife.

Complex, meditative work. Arthur was so caught up in it and the luxury of time he was afforded to really pay attention to the process that he didn't notice Charles walk up and stand over him, watching as he labored.

“You know, Pearson did say you were a natural born butcher, but somehow I hadn’t expected it to be so true.”

Arthur’s knife stilled where it was liberating a flank fillet from its outer membrane.

“Gotta say, it’s easier to take my time and make sure everythin’s done right when I got someone watchin’ my back, Mr. Smith.”

Arthur smiled at the compliment, a brief thing protected by the brim of his hat as he gestured towards the grilling plates aside the fire, “Mind checkin’ if those’re runnin’ hot enough yet? Since you’re done settin’ up our tents n’ all,” he punctuated the sentence with one last stroke of his knife, laying the fillet with the rest of the meat on a few clean patches of waxed leather.

Charles straightened up, cracking his back as he made the short walk around the fire and hovered his hand over the metal grates, “Yeah, they’re ready.” He crouched and stroked his chin somewhat bemusedly, watching as Arthur rifled through his satchel for crushed sprigs of herbs, placing them delicately on top of the meat. “Seeing how carefully you took those animals apart makes me wish I brought a proper skillet though. To treat these rabbits with a bit more respect.”

Arthur laughed, sitting back on his haunches as he cleaned his knife, “Don’t know that they much care about being respected, Mr. Smith,” he holstered it before rummaging through his satchel again, this time procuring and nestling a couple of cans into the outer embers of the fire, “but I’ll leave the cookin’ to you since you must know more about it than I do.”

Charles rolled his eyes as he took the bundle of meat Arthur proffered over the fire, their fingers just grazing each other in the exchange. Hands buzzing from the slight contact, he delicately laid out the leather and considered all the pieces before cooking with more care than Arthur would have bothered, first scoring flesh and stuffing herbs into meat before sprinkling them with a conservative layer of salt from a small canister, laying hind legs closer to open flame and fillets further out over the smoldering embers.

Arthur leaned back on an arm and watched as he labored, the fire licked up eagerly at the meagre amount of fat dripping off the game, rich smoke filling the air as it cooked. He found himself staring into the heart of the fire, noting how the flames flickered and jumped with the occasional breeze. The overbearing heat of the Heartlands was still present as the sun dipped entirely below the horizon, warmth baked into the very earth itself; as stars emerged fully overhead in a brilliant display, Arthur took his hat off in a bid to cool down.

Being so close to the fire didn’t help his case, but he refused to move and interrupt the quiet moment they had eased into. So, instead of paying attention to the heat and how his light jacket was quickly becoming stifling, he opted to pay attention to Charles. 

He carried a gravitas around him; a mixture of power, danger and purpose that manifested in his broad shoulders and the way each step he took felt deliberate; how even in doing the most mundane of tasks such as rotating carved meat on a grill, he kept a composure about him that made it seem like he was prepared for anything. An air that many lesser men tried to adopt and instead ended with them blustering about, trying and failing to assert their worthiness of a place in the world.

Or maybe Arthur’s brain was just cookin’ a bit in his skull.

The hazy, comfortable silence was occasionally interrupted by the collapse of a log in the fire, the popping of fat in flames and the metallic scrape of a knife against the grill, but was only truly broken when Charles finally gathered half the cooked meat onto one of the tin plates he salvaged from Pearson’s cart and held it out to Arthur saying, “Here. Eat.”

Blinking himself out of his stupor, Arthur accepted it. Setting the food aside to cool down, he dug out the cans from the outer edges of the fire, blearily turning them over in his hand to read the charred labels, “Y’want corn or beans?”

“Don’t know if I really want either, but I’ll take the corn if you’ll spare it.”

Arthur grinned as he tossed the heated through can over the fire, Charles easily catching it and then, in a slight panic, tossing it between his hands to help it cool down. Throwing a dirty look at an innocently grinning Arthur for not warning him of how hot it would be, he drew his knife and made quick work of the lid, pouring the watery yellow contents out onto his plate.

They ate in silence for a few moments and Arthur considered how much nicer meat tasted when you used salt and didn’t crush it against the grill and drain all the juice out of it.

"You know, I don’t think I can remember the last time I had an honest to god fresh vegetable."

Swallowing a mouthful, Arthur looked up.

"What?"

"A vegetable fresh out of the ground rather from one of these cans," he poked at the empty one he had set aside for emphasis. "Of course, I eat berries and wild carrots and the like, but I haven't had a vegetable in a minute. Everything that comes out of cans ends up tasting like the metal they were encased in. Feels more like I’m sucking on a penny than eating any type of produce. Know what I mean?"

Arthur took a forkful of his beans, thoughtfully chewing around his words, "Yeah, guess so. Never really much noticed it much myself...when I’m eatin’ canned stuff, I’m usually outta camp or just out and about, ridin’ on my horse. Don’t even bother heatin’ em up most the time."

Charles’ nose scrunched at the thought of eating cold, congealed canned beans and was about to make his displeasure with Arthur known when as if sensing she was being mentioned, Orville sleepily nickered from her spot just out of the firelight. 

Arthur grinned as he looked back at her, then leaned in with a stage whisper of, "See, she know about my food habits cause whenever I open a can, she gets a peppermint."

Charles could only hold his look of mock disgust so long before he smiled through his own mouthful of rabbit, crisp brown skin inundated with oregano and thyme. 

They sat there in silence as they ate, whatever nervous tension that may have remained from their earlier exchange melting away with the heady satisfaction that came from a hot meal.

 

Charles found himself staring at Arthur as he ate, looking back and forth from his plate to the other man, momentarily just enjoying the sight of him so rarely seen without his hat. His lightish brown hair was flattened on top from a day of being constrained, but curled just the slightest bit around his temples and ears, the ends long enough to touch his collar. Without the constant shadow the hat provided, his face seemed… softer. His eyes shone more readily in the firelight and Charles relished it for a moment, cataloging it in his memory.

Preparing himself for whatever reaction may come forth, Charles set his plate down and cleared his throat.

"Hey, Arthur."

Perking at the use of his first name, he looked up.

"You mind if I ask you something?"

Arthur set his plate down as he chewed at a bone’s cartilage cap and slowly wrapped the rest of his rabbit in waxed leather, tucking it into his satchel. Wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, he cautiously gestured to continue.

"What’s the story between you and Marston?"

Arthur’s face dropped, brows knitting as he almost scowled.

"That is a long story, Mr. Smith."

Charles kept his face blank as he waved an arm at the empty expanse of land they were in, easily saying, "We’ve got nothing but time." Anticipatory energy was almost thrumming in his ears; the mystery of how he could be so pointedly cruel to Marston now while the other Arthur had so confidently said he’d die for him had been simmering in the back of his mind and now seemed the perfect time to bring it up.

Arthur considered the request for a moment and the back and forth Charles saw reflected in eyes was something to behold. His thought process was clear without his hat shielding him, and those eyes that came off as cruel or stupid upon first glance revealed emotions beyond those definitions, as clearly broadcast as if they were written on his sleeve.

His head ducked instinctively as if he was still wearing the hat by his side, eyes straying between the lighting bugs in the field behind them, sparks floating up from the campfire and Charles himself, again absently toying with the fresh cut on his cheek. 

Resignation clicking in his eyes, his hand dropped as he said, "Fine. Guess I owe you for the food. What you want to know, Mr. Smith? I’m afraid it’s probably not as interesting as you may be thinkin’ it is."

Charles hummed, considering how best to phrase his question. He may only get the one shot, after all.

"Where did you two...start?"

Arthur groaned and pressed a knuckle into his eye, "If we goin’ that far back I’m gonna need a whole lotta coffee, Charles. Put some mint in there too."

Charles silently refilled the pot with his waterskin and doled out crushed mint leaves and grounds, nestling it into the outskirts of the fire to steep as he waited on the answer.

Arthur blinked and reluctantly sighed, tossing the bone he’d been chewing at into the fire.

"We was...are... brothers. Family in the best sense of the term I got, anyway. Helped raise that little shit."

Charles' eyebrows raised and he looked for any indication he was joking.

Arthur leaned forward, arm resting on his knee towards the crackling fire, feeding it tinder to watch it flare up and stabilize. His eyes were again trained in its heart where the color barely shone white instead of bothering with an attempt at eye contact.

"M'serious. Was just mindin’ my own business one day in camp, must’ve been around.. twenty one? Twenty two? And Hosea n’ Dutch came right on up to me askin’, 'Arthur, you want a little brother?'" Arthur hid a smile in his hand now, eyes gentling. "Didn’t even let me get the 'hell no' out my mouth before pullin’ little Johnny Marston, kickin n’ screamin, from behind their backs."

Charles got comfortable on the skin he’d set out, listening attentively. Arthur poured himself a cup of coffee, offering the pot to Charles and shrugged when he refused. 

"He musta been eleven or twelve. Scrawny, feral little thing he was. Angry at the whole wide world. His daddy died n’ he up n’ ran away from the orphanage or somethin’. Got caught up thievin’ from some  _ real _ decent folk in Illinois that woulda been just fine hangin’ a starvin’ kid out on the streets instead of helpin’ him." Arthur eyes darkened and he took a sip of his drink, harsh caffeine flooding across his tongue. "When Dutch brought him home…Goddamn. Had to force that boy to take anything adjacent to a bath and teachin’ him his letters was its own little battle. He never learnt to swim and as far as I’ve been informed, he still don’t know how!"

Arthur laughed and the smile accompanying it stuck on his face, small and tired.

"Took care of him like he was my own little snot nosed brother. Taught him how to shoot. How to play blackjack. How to talk to ladies. Took him on his first couple jobs and," Arthur faltered, suddenly self conscious, "you know, regular gang shit. I’m guessin’ you just wanted to know why I’m so sour on him now instead of listenin’ to an old ugly bastard get sentimental ‘bout his family."

Charles shrugged as he repositioned on the fur, hand stroking it absentmindedly. He stared into the fire as Arthur’s somewhat expectant gaze burned into him.

"I didn’t have a good family life myself, Arthur. My mother was taken when I was young and my father fell to the drink. Been a loner most of my life until I joined Dutch and you all. Sharing your memories...it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Had I more decent ones, I’d share them myself."

Arthur’s eyes trained on him for a couple more seconds before he picked up a stray stick and poked at the fire, admiring the shower of embers that flew up on the wind to trace small, spinning patterns in a frantic dance before extinguishing.

Quietly, he continued, "Well, I’m supposin’ you ain’t already heard, but little Johnny Marston up and abandoned the gang for a whole year a while back. Dropped all of us like a rotten carcass cause he didnt want to admit Jack was his." Arthur poked aggressively at the fire again before he threw the stick into its heart, shoulders tensing. "Abandoned his wife, infant child and the whole God damn gang ‘cause he couldn’t grow up and be a God damn man. ‘Cause he couldn’t realize that family is the only God damn thing we got." Arthur’s voice hardened as he talked, all reluctant fondness seeping out of it as he re-lived the betrayal. "And now everyone’s out here talkin’ to me about 'Can’t you let up on him about it? He’s back ain’t he?' when they  _ know  _ ain’t nobody else in the whole damn gang would be welcomed back that easy after that long." 

Arthur’s mouth was pulled in a nasty snarl and his thumb ticked angrily at the lip of his cup, firelight dancing in his dark pupils.

"And I’m the crazy one for bein’ mad about it. That unloyal son of a bitch waltzes back in when camp rules state he shoulda been  _ shot  _ and expects it to be all sunshine and daisies and by God, it actually was."

Arthur finished his drink in one go and slammed the empty cup down with enough force that a few errant drops of coffee flew up and sunk into the parched dirt.

"Guess that’s what happens when you’re the prize pony. The camp work horse opinions on the matter just don't factor in."

They stared at the fire for a long while in silence. Arthur’s face was stormy, the orange firelight throwing harsh, shifting shadows on his features that worked to play up the fury so clearly bubbling beneath his skin. Charles’ hand stilled against the mussed fur as he thought over the new information and how it slotted into his previous knowledge; the two had grown up together with Arthur helping to raise him until Marston ran away out of a fear of obligation. That alone would make sense, but even with all that had been said, he felt that Arthur was holding something back with how angry he got at the mention of Abigail and Jack. 

Before he could test his luck and press further, Arthur abruptly got up and walked to his tent.

"I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Smith."

Charles sat alone for a moment, only accompanied by the faint buzz of insects and the quiet calls of far off owls before he packed up his own leftovers, tossed another log onto the fire and retired to his bedroll.

☼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all comments spur me on! its my first time so thank u for being nice to me!


	4. Of the terrible doubt of appearances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked out at the bustling street below his window; people were enjoying the early evening without a care for the breathlessness of a man whose world was quickly being restructured beneath his feet.

☼

Charles woke up to a mixture of sunlight peeking through the seams of his tent’s canvas, the lively rustling of a fire being stoked, and a sharply bitter smell crawling its way into his consciousness.

From the scent laying heavy in the early air, Arthur was either reheating the remnants of last night's mint coffee or brewing a new batch, and Charles didn’t quite know if he wanted to take a chance on either option.

Taking a moment to enjoy the peace and ignore the heavy feeling that had stayed with him through the night, he rested a while longer before exiting his tent, a slight twinge in his lower back the reward for sleeping oddly on his bedroll.

“Morning.”

Arthur briefly looked over his shoulder from where he was heating his leftovers on the grill, humming at how Charles kneaded his back.

“You sayin’ that shit about a skillet last night, Mr. Smith, has made me have a damn cravin’ for fried eggs. You imagine a couple those cooked up in the fat off wild game or some suet? Chop a handful of wild carrots in there? Fresh thyme and hummingbird sage on top?” He grinned as he used his knife to check the underside of a piece of meat for browning, “Gonna have to make an excursion to the grocery next time I’m free.”

Charles felt the mild dread that had been hovering over him dissipate as he came up to rest next to Arthur, relieved to see the mood of their conversation hadn’t carried into the morning.

Closing his eyes to better focus on the smell, he said, “I used to carry a small cast iron on me, just for cooking. Some kid out west stole it, but… I didn’t have the heart to take it back. Took the poor thing out hunting and showed them how to properly prepare and cook food in it instead.” Charles smiled as he tugged out his ponytail and gently carded his hands through his loose hair. “Never got around to replacing it.”

 

Arthur’s eyes caught on his curls, dense and dark around his shoulders, flickering slightly in the morning breeze. He was distracted enough by the thought of how pretty it would be to draw him just like that, with the barest beginnings of morning diffusing across the coils and highlighting Charles’ face in a gold warm enough that it could’ve been made exclusively for him, that he only snapped back to earth when his rabbit began to burn.

“Shit!” 

Stabbing the flank and removing it from the heat was the best he could do, the bottom already charred and bitter.

He quickly dropped it on his plate as he sat back and poked at the blackened grill marks with his knife, a bemused frown painting his face.

“Reheat your own rabbit then, Mr. Smith. Don’t want to take the chance that my foolish hands could ruin your sup. Burnt ends ain’t all that bad anyway,” Arthur grinned as he pushed the meat around on his plate, re-liquifying leftover dregs of fat that had cooled onto the tin.

Charles hummed as he tied back his hair and placed his portion of cold, greasy meat on the grill. Turning it over every so often until he was satisfied, he sat next to Arthur with his plate, their knees knocking against each other with each minute movement. Breakfast was quiet and the two of them lingered in the morning’s sweet breeze, savoring the can of strawberries Arthur opened and wordlessly portioned between them as they watched the fire die down. Charles was acutely aware that neither of them really wanted to go through with the job they had set out to accomplish.

Arthur reluctantly broke the silence with, “Better saddle up, Mr. Smith. Emerald station’s a ways off, but if you’re willin’ to go off-road with me, I can get us there a bit faster.”

Charles ripped a strip of meat off a leg, chewing slowly and savoring the flavors that had intensified overnight. The herbed, salty meat paired well with the astringently syrupy strawberries, each flavor complementing the other, even though the middle of his portion had stayed a bit cold.

“Taima should be able to do it. She’s not quite as big as Orville over there, but she handles well in most any terrain.”

Arthur nodded as he got up, kicking dirt over the remnants of the fire and smothering the flames. Readjusting his gun belt and roughly patting himself down of the dirt that decorated his knees, he said, “Let’s pack up and get goin’.”

☼

Arthur led the way out onto the main road, taking a moment to gather his bearings as they passed through Twin Stack pass. It only took him a second of remembering landmarks before he gently turned his horse and spurred her on with a shout, galloping out into the open field with a surprising burst of speed. Barely checking to make sure Charles was following, he was off. 

Charles was vaguely familiar with the way to Emerald Ranch, having passed it a couple of times on far flung hunting trips, but the ride off the main road showcased the land in a different light. It changed depending on if you rode through it with purpose, opposed to a meandering hunt that could end with little more than an appreciation for nature’s ability to survive. 

They rode quietly but for the muted thudding of hooves against compact earth, the ground slowly transforming beneath them from dry dust and dormant vegetation to vibrantly alive greenery. They began passing blurs of verdant grasses and shrubs, the emerging hills dotted with the occasional patch of bright wildflowers or a bush encumbered with plump berries; large animals were seen and heard scattering at their presence as the earth came to life around them, embarrassed at their uninvited intrusion.

Their riding slowed as they crossed small rivers and rolling hills, Arthur calling back at one moment to, “Avoid that house built into the ground there, Mr. Smith. The owner is a mean old bastard and don’t appreciate visitors so much as lookin’ at his herd.”

Charles grinned as they rode through the bleating goats, making note of the twisted tree that sat at the crest of the odd little house. The owner was staring at them, rifle in hand, with what Charles assumed would be a mean glare if he had been close enough to tell.

Whatever half hearted urgency they had set out with quickly dissipated and they settled back into their saddles, enjoying the changing scenery and the crisp breeze at a lazy trot. Charles let Taima take the reins as he cleaned his sawed off shotgun, the gun oil making his sidearm shine.

If he held his breath, he could almost hear Arthur sing.

Eventually, they rejoined the main path and rode into a small, vibrant township, Arthur pulling Orville in a tight circle to face Charles with a grandiose, “Welcome to Emerald Ranch, Mr. Smith.”

Charles made himself look suitably impressed, as if Arthur had steaded the ranches himself, recalling all the places they’d robbed much grander than this one.

“I got a fence I use here, Seamus,” Arthur leaned forward to give Orville a peppermint, hand flexed flat so she could finish her treat with a grateful whicker, “He may give us some information since we usually gotta search for these poor bastards.”

Charles looked around, updating his internal map of the Heartlands with the large swaths of grazing land, penned livestock and farmers tending to horses.

Satisfied, he nodded towards the main road, “I’ll go up ahead, see what I can’t find out.”

Arthur nodded as he dismounted, Orville shaking the dust out of her coat. He lead her over to Seamus and began talking with the man, rifling through his satchel for trinkets to sell as he solicited information.

Charles continued down the main road, quickly noticing the ostentatiously large house with a well kept garden in the middle of it. He snapped at Taima’s lead, pulling up in front of the mansion and was busy admiring the path outlined with stone and the neat rows of crops on display when movement in the second story window caught his eye.

A girl in the window was looking down at the goings on, her thumb worrying at her lip.

Charles stared at her, curious. She noticed him stilled in front of the house and barely made eye contact through the glare of the window’s glass before turning away, arms clasped around herself in a light hug.

“Can I help you?”

Blinking, Charles looked down at the freckled gardener staring up at him.

Suspicious, the man moved as if to block the entrance to the grounds with his body, crossing his sunburnt arms with a, “Mister, do you need something?”

Taking a moment to remember why he was here, he cleared his throat and asked, “You know a Lilly Millet? I’ve something to ask her.”

The man relaxed a little, hands falling down to his pockets as he answered disinterestedly, “Sure. She’s usually just down the road by that small general store all covered in deer skulls, arguing with her bum man about somethin’ or other. Why you need her for?”

“Official business,” Charles said lightly and wore a gracious smile, eyes again searching for the girl in the upper story window, this time seeing only an empty hallway. 

Grunting, the man returned to his work station where a partner was leaning on a shovel looking curiously at them as they talked.

Charles gently pulled at Taima’s bridle to stop her grazing at the scant grass poking through the fence and walked her slowly as he waited for Arthur to catch up, looking curiously back at the mansion over his shoulder.

He didn’t have to wait long, Arthur quickly coming up to his side at a lively canter with, “Seamus gave me some info n' some cash for a couple pocket watches. Down that way, right?”

Charles nodded and was about to mention the girl in the window with the sad look in her eye when they heard faint yelling about, ‘ _ I’ll have the money next week, Lilly! _ ’. Sharing a glance, they clicked at their horses and quickly found the quarreling couple on a worn out bench in front of the general store.

Arthur was on the ground first, walking up to them while Charles leaned forward in Taima’s saddle to pet at the base of her mane, trying to soothe her restless pawing at the earth.

Clearing his throat as the couple continued arguing, Arthur finally interrupted with, “Lilly.”

She looked up with annoyance at the intrusion to an obviously private conversation, ready to reprimand him before she saw Arthur, his guns, and registered what he could be. Quickly getting up from the bench as her companion stayed put, something like fear flashed over her face.

Arthur shifted his weight onto his heels as he said, “Where’s our money.”

“What?”

“That loan you took. It’s payday.”

Arthur’s thumbs were hooked on his belt, a look menacing in its indifference on his face.

“I’m- I’m sorry, I don’t have it right now,” she laughed nervously, hands smoothing out the front of her dress.

Arthur stepped forward, voice going low, “Well then, I guess we got a  _ big _ problem, don’t we?” 

Charles’ eyes narrowed as Arthur's demeanor changed, quick and sudden as it had taken him to burn the meat earlier that morning. He was sharp and venomous now, like you could hurt yourself just by hearing too much of him.

Lilly stepped back as he advanced, the backs of her calves knocking against the low bench, and put a hand on the shoulder of the man who had been sitting silently until now. 

Her voice was high with nervous tension trying to work itself into pleasantness as she said, “Cooper! Give him all you got!”

“I ain’t giving you nothing,” he said quietly as he got up, Arthur leaning in the slightest bit to better hear the man mumble through his mustache, “Except a lesson in some damn  _ manners _ !” he finished in a shout, cold clocking Arthur in the jaw.

“Son of a bitch-” Arthur veered for a hot second before getting his bearings, grabbing the man’s collar and delivering a few swift punches of his own.

Lilly screamed and covered her face as Charles’ eyebrows raised and he bit back a surprised laugh at the way Arthur had very nearly asked for that punch. Clearing his throat to banish the rest of his snicker, he dismounted Taima with one last pat to the neck and drew his sawed off shotgun. In quick succession, he made his way to the brawling men, pulled Cooper away from the scuffle and shoved the firearm into his face. 

“Friend, I’d suggest you stop before this gets messier than it needs to.” Charles felt a little naked doling out threats without his bandana on, but kept his voice low and steady. “Give us the money we’re owed and you can have a nice, exciting story you can embellish all you like about kissing the barrel of a gun and living to tell the tale. Don’t give us the money and I can introduce the inside of your skull to the dirt beneath us.”

Cooper snarled as his eyes darted between Charles, the gun almost resting on his nose and Arthur who was walking back into his line of vision, slapping the dust off his hat that had been knocked off during their brief brawl. Lilly was pleading with him, voice shrill on the verge of breaking, “Just give them the money, Cooper!” 

Something shifted behind his eyes as an already imposing challenge became untenable; he drew a small money clip from his pocket and spat as he threw it on the ground, “God damn low life loan sharks.”

Arthur’s hand came up from his nose, bemusedly showing the scarlet blood currently leaking from it to Charles.

“And a pleasant day to you too,” he said as Charles dismissed the couple with a jerk of his gun, picking up the bills and scattered coins that fell out of the clip and counting through them with a vicious sniff. His shaving cut had been split open from the initial punch, blood spreading and already drying in his beard.

“Mr. Smith, I have the distinct feeling you coulda been much faster to help me,” Arthur said, tenderly pinching the bridge of his nose to help stem the flow of blood.

Rocking onto the balls of his feet, Charles answered, “Well, Mr. Morgan, I thought you could handle yourself well enough to know not to invite strangers that owe you money to punch you in the face.”

Arthur huffed out a laugh as he slapped the cash against his palm, all levity draining out of his eyes as he said, “That’s thirty five total. After givin’ Dutch half and Strauss his due, ‘bout a dollar seventy-five for each of us. As I said, ain’t much, but good enough for a room n’ meal.”

“I guess.” The small surge of adrenaline from having to so suddenly step into a fight had worn off and all he could think of was the dirtied hem of Lilly’s dress and how obviously it had been Cooper to push her into a situation that warranted Arthur come collecting. “Feels a bit dirty, doing this type of work.”

Arthur stopped rifling through the bills and looked over at him. “Yeah. It is not my favored form of money makin’, but it’s legal and Dutch approves.” Quietly, “Much as I don’t.” 

He handed Charles his share, the edges of the bills smeared with his fresh blood, “Sometimes it feels more honest to just rob a fella to his face instead of hidin’ behind all these laws. Civilization ain’t so civilized as it promises.”

Charles hesitated before he took the money and tucked it into his pocket, fingers drumming against his holstered gun, the constant threat of violence it carried heavy in its leather casing.

“I suppose so.” 

Arthur turned away from him and whistled for Orville to come closer, praising her for not bolting as Charles looping Taima’s reins in his hand and said, “The day is still young, Mr. Morgan. You have any other plans?”

Arthur stopped where his foot was in Orville’s stirrup, contemplating the question. Grabbing at the saddlehorn, he got up over her back, bracing his weight on his knees and gathering the slack reins in a hand.

“Orville needs some upkeep at the stable,” he said as he sat back in the saddle and patted her neck, “n’ Hosea gave me a map of some legendary animals. May wander and catch me a pelt.”

Charles hummed disinterestedly, “I’ll just see you back at camp, then.”

His displeasure with trophy hunting must have been obvious because Arthur shrugged defensively, “Ain’t like I’m just leavin’ the bodies to rot, Mr. Smith. All the meat n’ carcass I can carry gets pulled straight to Pearson, or sold n’ dropped in the pot.”

“I don’t doubt it. Still leaves a bad taste in my mouth when the animal’s too big for your mare to haul and gets left there.” Cutting him off before Arthur had the chance to protest, he continued, “You should probably clean those, uh...grievous wounds before anything else though. Good as you look all bloodied up, you don’t want that cut getting infected.”

Arthur’s face lit up in surprise as he gingerly pressed at his cut like he hadn’t noticed it reopening at all, dried flakes of blood agitating off of his beard’s bristles. 

He wiped his fingers off on his jeans, now acutely aware of the thin layer of grime he’d gained in the brief fist fight. “I’ll wash up while Orville’s being tended to. May be a couple days before I head back to camp. We’ll see.”

Arthur pulled at Orville’s reins, ready to make his way to the nearest stable or small lake to take a dip before really cleaning up.

Charles looked after him as he pulled at Taima’s lead, the dollar seventy-five weighing heavy and sour in his pocket.

“Arthur.” 

Again perking at the use of his first name, he turned Orville to face Charles as she stamped impatiently at the earth.

“Don’t go on any more collections without me.”

Taking a second to process what he said, Arthur broke out into a delighted grin at the prospect of company.

“Ain’t in much hurry to do them anyway, Charles.”

And with that he was off.

Charles stared after him until he obscured from sight before pulling gently at Taima’s reins again, walking her to the train station up the way. The only landmark on the beaten dirt road was a small gravesite populated with worn tombstones; as he got closer to the train station, he saw a pair of animated men playing dominos. Keeping Taima’s lead in hand, he coughed when he was close enough to rest a boot on the raised wooden floor and got their attention.

“Excuse me. Could you point me in the direction of the nearest town? I need a hotel.”

Leaning back in his chair with a deep stretch and obviously grateful for the respite from his losing tray, the man drawled, "Bit early to be heading off to sleep, huh? Ain't you got more honest folk to rob, like you was just busy with?"

Charles' eyes narrowed as he considered his options, but before he could say anything the man's sour face broke and he laughed, "Woah, fella! I'm just pullin' your leg! We all know that bum Cooper's been drainin' that sweet milkmaid dry."

“A damn shame it is, she deserves better’n that fool,” His partner said, sucking his teeth and displaying a chipped canine as he shuffled his dominos.

"A collector was bound to come around sooner or later. Just glad y'all managed not to knock anyone out or kill em, 'cause then I'd have to file a report n' shit. Damn lawmen always take forever to arrive and rarely do they ever make anything better."

Charles slowly nodded before saying, "So, a nearby hotel...?"

Letting the legs of his chair thump back onto the ground, he said, "Oh, for sure. Just go on up North for about a couple miles, then there'll be a small place to your right. May've shut down by now, but that's the closest and usually where I went when I needed to."

Thanking the men as he mounted Taima, Charles crossed the railroad tracks and made his way north. As he left, he heard the mean laugh of someone that just won money paired with the groan of a loser that had bet too much. 

☼

He rode at a healthy trot, Taima enjoying the chance to stretch her legs without fear of overwork and Charles enjoying the chance to be thoroughly lost in thought. So caught up in his own mind was he, that he almost missed the woman on the side of the road calling out and waving her arms to catch his attention.

Sharply pulling at Taima’s reins to her disgruntlement, he slowed and turned around to face the woman.

“Are you alright? What happened?”

She took a second to catch her breath, resting her hand on Taima’s flank.

“Thank the Lord above you stopped, mister. I been trying to flag someone down for near an hour and everyone’s ignored me- my horse collapsed a bit further down the road and I can’t get home walkin’, it’s too far. I need help.”  
  
Readjusting in his saddle, Charles said, “Where are you staying?”

Hope shining in her eyes, “Valentine! Valentine, mister. Could you take me home?”

Reaching down, he pulled her up to sit on the skins covering Taima’s rump.

“Thank you so much, mister! I’m Larkin, what d’you call yourself? You need directions?”

“Smith. And no, I think I know the land well enough to get you back home. I need a hotel anyway and Valentine's is as clean as I could expect.”

She settled in, hands resting on his shoulders to keep her balance as she rode sidesaddle, “This is real kind of you, Mr. Smith. Least three men rode right on by like they didn’t see me and all the rest seemed to revel in the cruelty of turning me down.”

He glanced back at her with a sympathetic hum and snapped at Taima’s reins, re-joining the main road. They rode in silence for less than a minute before she marveled, “These furs sure are clean, Mr. Smith. You hunt them yourself?”

“Yes, I did. I’ve had them for a long while, all properly treated. I use them when I’m out on my own.”

She nodded in admiration as she stroked with the grain of the fur, admiring at the soft leather she could feel on the other side if she wiggled her fingers underneath it. 

“My girl hunts for us sometimes,” Larkin said, voice wavering before continuing stronger, “Always the smaller things though, like rabbits and pheasant. We’re too little a household to warrant an entire deer.”

Charles smiled at the way she said ‘my girl’, as if it was something exciting and strange, not quite settled on the tongue yet.

“Your girl, huh? She hunt much or is it all new?”

Larkin squeezed his shoulders and hid a relieved smile behind his back, “We do well enough for ourselves, Mr. Smith.”

“If you’ll allow it, I’m going to give you two some advice; make sure you take a deer down before winter. It’s not much fun hunting in the snow slurry that graces this part of the country and living off canned goods isn’t the future, no matter what your grocer says.”

She giggled, “I’ll make sure to tell her! A left up ahead,”

Charles dutifully rode to her instructions even though he knew the way, clicking his tongue at Taima as they cut through short grass to get onto another road.

They rode quietly for a moment more, Larkin leaning forward, hands still resting on his shoulders as she stared at his profile.

“If you’ll allow it, Mr. Smith, I have an observation I’d like to share with you.”

Glancing over, he made brief eye contact with her and hummed to continue before returning his attention to the road.

“It’s nice to have a reaffirmation that...we’re not alone out here. You’re not alone, nor am I.” She squeezed his shoulders again and he gave a small smile to the road ahead of them. 

“And I just noticed that- your eyes shine so brightly, even though you seem so tired, Mr. Smith. In the spirit of not being alone, is there anything you want to talk about?”

He stiffened in his saddle, suddenly uncomfortable with how easily what he thought he had kept under control was read. His mouth parted silently and the scar on his right hand tightened as he looped Taima’s reins around it. 

There was no risk in telling her. She was a stranger he was helping home and they shared a kinship; they may not even see each other again.

There was no risk.

Clearing his throat, he said in a voice soft enough that it would have been swept away by the wind but for her proximity, “I’ve got someone I’m trying to help.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his voice again, voice coming a bit stronger now. “He came to me and he asked me in the oddest way, that I still can’t quite believe happened, for help and now I’m... trying to help him. But I don’t quite know what I’m supposed to be helping him with.”

She laughed, “Shouldn’t you have asked him for specifics? He sounds like a fool if he didn’t just tell you what he needed!”

“There wasn’t any time for that, I suppose. He was there one moment, gone the next.”

She sobered at his tone, hands stilling on his shoulders as she encouraged him to continue.

“He was there and he looked like hell and then he was gone and he left me with the hope that I could do better than he managed. And I want to be able to. Because he left himself with me, in a fashion.” The journal nestled in Taima’s saddlebag and the intoxicating weight it held as a distillation of Arthur Morgan making it almost difficult to touch jumped to the forefront of his mind. 

“Left himself with you? Ain’t that the most romantic thing,” She sighed when it became clear he wouldn’t elaborate, “You two sound like something straight out of a dime novel.”

“Maybe so. But I don’t want the extent of our relationship, whatever it may be, to just be me… helping him. I know it won’t because he wouldn’t let anyone do that anyway,” He smiled ruefully, focusing on the feeling of blood pounding through the scar tissue on his hand, “But I want something. Something that feels meaningful.”

She nodded and quietly said, “You’ll run out of yourself if you pour everything into someone that don’t understand what you mean.”

He hummed and they fell into a silence that stuck this time as he urged Taima faster.

☼

Charles pulled into the main dirt road that was Valentine and offered a hand back to Larkin, helping her jump down back onto earth. She took a second to regain her feet and smoothed out the fur resting on Taima’s rump where it had been ruffled by her presence before taking Charles’ hand in both of hers, smiling up at him.

“Thank you for taking me home, Mr. Smith. I meant what I said earlier, about neither of us being alone.” She squeezed his hand and then started patting around in her pockets, “Let me get you something for the trouble of taking me back-”

“You stop right there, Miss Larkin,” he said sternly, “I don’t need any payment from you when you were so gracious as to allow me to chew your ear off on the ride here.”

She raised her eyebrows with a surprised smile and laughed, “Mr. Smith, if that’s what you call chewing off, I’d hate to be around you when you’ve decided to be quiet!”

Grinning, he jerked his head down the road, “Go on and get to your girl, miss. I’ll see you around.”

“See you around!” She gave him a smile wide enough to light up her whole face and a brief wave before gathering her skirts out of the mud and running down the street.

The sun had long since dipped past its apex overhead; the ride took more time than he thought it would and he pulled at Taima’s reins, making note of her dusty legs and the muck that had built up on her from riding through shallow streams and bone dry dirt intermittently. Following Arthur’s lead, she could use some upkeep. He was easily tempted by the concept of treating her at the stable to a full brush down and nail trim and made his way there to fulfill it.

Dismounting as he entered the spacious barn, he called out, “Anyone in?”

A muted voice came from around the corner, “Just a second!”

Charles stroked at Taima’s withers as the stablekeep rounded the corner, wiping his hands down with a cloth so dirty it probably made matters worse.

“Hello, sir!” He tucked the dirty cloth into his pocket and clasped his hands together, “How can I help you today?”

“Just need a care package and a stall for the night,” he said as he gave Taima one last pat and she nuzzled at his hand, seeking a treat for a job well done.

The stablekeep walked around her, admiring her dappled coat, “That is a fine horse, mister. We got plenty of room, I’ll make sure she’s taken care of,” he reached out a hand for her lead, “Overnight’ll be free and it’s seventy-five cents for the care package.”

“Sure, I’ll just need a moment to get something out of her saddlebags.”

Rummaging around, he withdrew the small journal and tucked it under his arm, fishing out the seventy-five cents from his pocket that he had gotten for his work earlier.

The stable keep sent him off with, “Have a good one! She’ll be here when you need her!” 

He nodded and gave a small salute as he exited the stable, shaking out a cigarette and lighting it with a match struck against his shoe. Barely had he taken a single drag when across the small square beaten into the dirt of the town, a crier was calling out to anyone within hearing distance for donations.

He didn’t have the chance to try and avoid being spotted before the man caught sight of him and was beckoning him over with calls of, “Hey, you! Don’t you have a heart? Don’t you want to give back to the world, mister?”

Charles looked to either side, as if the man could be flagging down anyone but him, faltering just a second before giving in and walking over to hear him out.

“Oh, thank you for stopping, everyone in this town is so, so-” his sentence was interrupted by a cough that was uncomfortably familiar, “-willing to ignore those they could help. I’m collecting donations for the down-and-outs that can’t do better for themselves and I want to ask, will you help your fellow man, sir?”

Charles kept his distance from the man who was hopefully holding out a hand, wary of his obvious sickness.

“Help my fellow man? Guess I don’t do that as often as I could,” Talking around his lit cigarette, he dipped back into his pocket and retrieved the last dollar of his share from Lilly. “Seems the best way to get rid of it, huh?” He said more to himself than the crier, dropping it in his hand from as far away as possible.

His face lit up as he put the money in the tithings box, ready to give his thanks and a pamphlet to Charles who was already walking away. The best he could do was call after him, “Thank you, sir! For having enough goodness in your heart to stop and help!”

Charles raised his cigarette in a salute as he walked down the road to the hotel, lighter now that he had freed his pockets of the debt money. Letting out a half-laugh as he took a drag, he realized it really did feel more honest to just rob a man to his face.

He got the bath and room key from a disinterested innkeeper who flatly told him his room number, that he was lucky enough that the bath had already been run for a man who had deserted his turn, and that he could go right in instead of having to wait for new water to boil.

The room was steamy as he entered it, a fully drawn bath's water still and smooth but for the vapor coming off it. Undressing quickly in anticipation for the soak, Charles tied his hair up higher than his usual ponytail, packing it into a bun. He eased his sore legs into the practically scalding water, taking care not to get his hair wet as he sank deeper into the tub. He had only barely begun to relax when a soft knock at the door interrupted him, asking  _ If he wanted any help in there? _

“No, thank you,” Charles responded awkwardly, suddenly feeling pressured to forego the leisurely soak he had planned. Reaching for the soap and long-handled brush provided, he occupied himself with scrubbing off the past few days that had accumulated on him, savoring the faint smell of beef that came from the cheaply-made tallow soap if only because it meant he was getting  _ clean _ .

As Charles scrubbed mercilessly, he thought about Arthur‘s relatively restrained demeanor with Lilly and Cooper; how he could have easily just taken out his pistol and shot the man who punched him in the face instead of going the tamer route of a fistfight. Arthur hadn’t put as much heart in the implied threat against Lilly as he did in regular business either; while the man Charles had seen that afternoon at Emerald Ranch was terrible, more terrible was the one he had seen almost beat someone to death in the mud and sheep shit that coated this town for no reason other than being called a  _ Pretty boy. _

One last rinse with cooling water and Charles suddenly remembered why the coughing man at the tithings box had sounded so familiar. He’d been the one to stop Arthur from truly killing that man in front of the bar. He was deeper in the crowd so he hadn't recognized him at first, but the shaky voice, deep seated cough and the way he had said, ‘Haven’t you already won?’ flared through his mind, as if identifying one memory had unlocked a flood of smaller recollections.

Getting out of the tub, he dried off and got dressed, skin staying just damp enough that his shirt stuck uncomfortably to his chest. Pulling at it as he left the bathroom, he smiled at the working girl in the hallway that coyly waved her cigarette at him and made his way upstairs, key jiggling in his door’s resistant lock.

When it finally yielded with an indignant creak, he entered to find a threadbare but clean room, occupied by a simple bed with a light blanket, wardrobe, and an oak desk. Locking the door behind him, Charles tossed his jacket on the bed and sat heavily at the desk across from it, fingers drumming a simple pattern into the wood.

On top of the jacket laid Arthur’s journal, daunting in its innocent exterior; it was clean save for an inset bloodstain that someone had failed to wipe off fast enough. Indelible proof that Arthur had been there and what was in front of him was real. 

He considered going downstairs and getting something to eat from the hotel manager but quickly scrapped the idea as he realized any appetite he may have worked up on the ride into town had since disappeared. Setting thoughts of food aside, Charles got up before his nerve could fail him again, took the journal, and steeled himself to open it. 

This was a confirmation of trust; not a break in it.

The well-worn leather binding complained as he gently opened the book and warily looked at the first few pages; he didn’t know quite what he expected, but maps of Blackwater and Colter weren’t too far out of the ordinary. They were detailed, with areas marked out indicating stages of Arthur and Hosea’s plan; he had heard the two talking about it on the ride to Horseshoe Overlook and had to agree that it probably would’ve panned out better than Dutch’s half mast attempt at a boat robbery. 

Flipping through the pages, he saw camp locales with vague directions on how to get to them and two page spreads of towns marking where they’d all gone; Rhodes, Horseshoe Overlook, Saint Denis, Strawberry, a run down mansion simply labeled  _ Home for now.  _ All of it delicately detailed with more precision than he would’ve thought Arthur capable of having. 

Between the occasional ripped remnants that indicated torn out pages, there were startlingly accurate sketches of wildlife staring curiously out of the paper, plants labelled with names and effects, portraits of strangers Arthur had encountered with small blurbs about what happened between them, and even one photograph of wolves tucked into the binding with a paragraph about an ‘Albert Mason’ next to it. 

He was absolutely taken by the delicate handwriting and soft, thoughtful way that Arthur spoke his journal. It was so very different from the way he projected himself in day to day life; even in his most relaxed moments at camp, drunk and free from all the walls he felt he had to put up to protect himself, he didn’t come anywhere near this level of gentle articulation, always instead playing the buffoon. Charles had known it was an act if only from Hosea’s teasing, but didn’t know that it was one that went this deep.

He continued flipping through the pages, absorbed by the confident lines that made up the drawings and all the little experiences Arthur had had before he noticed a common theme; portraits. Portraits of friends, family and strangers to portraits that looked unnervingly familiar. He stopped skimming to land on a two page spread of the entire camp celebrating around a fire, a small label indicating,  _ ‘Sean’s Return.’ _

So, Sean is alive and they all manage to get him back. Filing that information away for later, he returned to the journal.

The pencil strokes were clean and everyone was given some degree of care, but Charles himself was drawn in especially stark relief. His face was illuminated by the roughly sketched fire, graphite blended smooth to make for a soft portrait; his smile was shakily detailed in, as if Arthur wasn’t quite confident in his ability to draw it yet, the scars on his face barely a suggestion made by the firelight rather than a single continuous line. The bottle held loosely in his fingers seemed to be an afterthought to his actual hands, short strokes outlining them with more detail than some of the other faces around the fire were afforded.  


Heart catching in his throat, he continued flipping through, finding more drawings of himself, watching as they became more in-depth and accurate as the pages went on until they finally started to taper off, devolving as Arthur’s handwriting became shakier and more mistakes were made, as though his arm kept getting jostled while writing.

Flipping from the back of the book, he found the last portrait. It was him- he had shaved the sides of his head and braided the rest of his coiled hair into a mohawk and was looking out over something, eyes more serious than he could remember being. The caption flanking the picture read, 

_ ‘I have finally been stricken for my desires unending, that I have taken more than I ever gave. I could not have Mary, I failed Eliza and Isaac and now it is too cruel to want someone else. Dutch has his plan, but it is all falling apart around us- we are finally living as what he has always despised, simple criminals hiding from the law. I have decided that I will continue to do what I do best- work as a brute, even with my waning strength, because it is the only way I will be able to ensure the safety of the women and Jack.  _

A small amount of smeared blood decorated the page and smeared a few words, dark brown stains set deep in the fibers of the paper.

_ I fear that I brought this fate upon myself through a combination of both action and inaction; the only thing left to do is deal with the consequences.’ _

Blood thrumming in his ears, Charles gently closed the journal and leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming a steady, calming rhythm against the leather cover. 

It was real, then. 

It was either real or someone was pulling a cruel joke with no clear punchline. 

Resting the journal on the desk, he looked out at the bustling street below his window; people were enjoying the early evening without any care for the breathlessness of a man whose world was quickly being restructured beneath his feet. 

As he continued to sit and stare out the window, the sky got darker until the sun retreated fully behind the horizon. The number of people on the street dwindled until it was only occupied by stumbling drunks and the working girls trying to entice them; he clasped a hand over his mouth, roughly rubbing against stubble as determination cemented behind his eyes.

He left the book and quickly went downstairs to get a lamp from the tired hotelkeep, lighting the flame as he walked back to his room and propped it up on the desk, his eyes burning steadily in the soft flame as he read through the rest of Arthur’s journal.

☼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,  
> That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,  
> That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,


	5. That shadow my likeness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plenty of things happening in life but i havent quite given up on them yet

It was hot. Much hotter than the evening had any right to be. It had been a long couple of days since he last saw Charles at Emerald Ranch and Arthur had since shucked his light shirt, leaving only a half undone union suit to cover his chest, gambler’s hat crushed atop his head to protect his vision from the setting sun. The river just a toss away didn’t provide any cool air to counteract the heat, too shallow in this part for much more than wet boots.

 

Blinking away the sweat that managed to get past his eyebrows, he blew a raspberry as Orville tossed her head, discontent with the heavy load of carcass and rider she was carrying in conditions that left a lather of foamy sweat under her saddle.

 

“Easy, girl,” Arthur couldn’t find the energy to say more than a couple of words at a time with the oppressive atmosphere, much less convey specific thoughts to a horse that couldn’t understand anything past the tone of his voice. He pulled slowly at her bit, continuing with his tired, placating noises as they steered off the road into the scant cover provided by rocks and shrubbery banking the river.

 

His union suit stuck to him uncomfortably no matter how many times he pulled the slightly damp fabric away from himself, jeans chafing where they rubbed against Orville's sides, gnats buzzing in his ears trying their damnedest to make the evening as unpleasant as possible. 

 

Weighing the probability of making it to Van Horn before the sun well and truly set, Arthur glared into the brilliantly colored sky just above where the sunset would burn his retinas before he finally stopped, exasperated, and surrendered to the elements. 

 

He led Orville to a clearing on the riverbank- the water was fresh and flowed from the Elysium pool just a bit further North, if he had his bearings. Relieving her of the weight, Arthur first unfastened her saddle and then took the legendary beaver he’d hunted off her rump, appreciatively smoothing out the glossy white fur it had proudly borne in life as he set it on the ground. Orville snorted gratefully as she shook herself out, Arthur shielding himself from the flecks of sweat flying in every direction before she carefully walked to the river to drink.

 

Arthur finished setting up his simple tent as the sun was finally lost to the horizon, fanning himself with his hat in an attempt to relieve the heat; it had been so stifling these past few days that being outdoors felt more like a constant fever than any natural weather pattern. The concept of stoking a fire and multiplying the sensation was unthinkable.

 

He opted to instead sink into a state of monotony where he did not need to think at all and could be free from the discomfort that came with being conscious in such conditions; sleep. As he crawled into his lean to and settled on his thin bedroll, he listened to the buzzing of gnats that hadn’t quite given up yet, the burbling of the gently rolling river and the creaking of his own bones as they settled.

 

Respite from the constant bouncing riding forced upon him only served to intensify awareness of his sore thighs; he crossed his legs with a discontented hum, hoping that the light pressure would be enough to soothe them.

 

☼

 

The complaints of an empty stomach woke him before the sun did and Arthur only begrudgingly roused himself to address it. He scrubbed the sleep out his eyes as he sat up, stretching gingerly in an attempt not to collapse his tent onto himself. Relaxing, he sat there for a moment, head in hand, bare arms lightly spattered in dirt where they’d wandered off the bedroll in his sleep. 

 

It was still a bit till dawn, the platinum pocket watch he’d claimed off an unconscious drunk told him, dark sky corroborating. The silence that came with the early hour washed over him and he basked in it; as he listened to the morning’s silence that wasn't quite silent, he came more into his body and realized the temperature had dipped overnight; the air was crisp enough that he saw the ghost of every breath hang in the air before dissipating. Suddenly acutely aware of how his by now dry union suit was utterly failing at keeping him warm and the more insistent growling of his stomach, he slowly got up from the cold ground and ventured out of his tent.

 

Free from the constrained space, he readjusted his belt and suspenders where they'd been shifted during sleep and looked around his campsite as he took stock of his belongings. There were loose cigarette cards, crushed flowers, a few half empty tonics, and a comb in his satchel as he pawed through it, but a distinct lack of canned foods or even jerky; hell, he’d take some of Pearson’s salted offal right now. He was much too far from camp to go back for a resupply there and the nearest town was the trading post a few hours out; a too light lunch and no dinner yesterday paired with the possibility of no breakfast today left him dizzy and intent on eating _something_ , whatever it may be.

 

Eyeing the beaver he'd left next to the saddle last night, his hand came to rest on his holstered knife. A valiant effort had been made to keep the animal intact for the Trapper, but the discomfort of an empty belly proved more persuasive than an extra 10 dollars in his pocket. 

 

Decision made, Arthur quickly went through the motions of gathering tinder and starting a fire, cursing his last night's self for not at least setting up the pit. He went through three matches of his dwindling supply before it finally caught, the slightly damp wood letting off sour smoke that made him cough, waving his hand to try and clear it away.

 

Settling back heavily on his heels as the flame started to consume more of the drier tinder below the subpar wood, he allowed the warmth from the small fire to begin soaking into him, carefully stretching out his shoulders and back and exhaling sharply as his spine loudly popped.

 

"You're gettin' old. Old and slow, Morgan," he said to the open air, his only response a soft whicker from where Orville was resting near the river.

 

He clicked his tongue to call her over as he got up with a grunt, meeting her halfway between the fire and the riverbank, boots sinking just slightly into the wet soil. Rummaging through her saddlebags, he got the last, slightly squishy apple out for her, resting his head against her neck as she ate it.

 

"Sorry girl, I'll get you some fresh ones when we're back in town," he said into her mane, muffled and through a barely stifled yawn. 

 

The fire still needed time to grow before anything could be cooked on it and by now he was sorely in need of some washing. Making the decision before he could convince himself otherwise, he stripped out of his remaining clothes, placing his boots neatly near the slowly growing fire alongside a roughly folded union suit and jeans, belts and holsters in a small pile atop them. 

 

The cold was suddenly much more bitter now that he was naked. He covered himself from prying eyes he could suddenly feel all around him, a flare of embarrassment spurring him to quickly make his way to the river and keep pace going in, frigid water triggering goosebumps across his entire body the deeper he waded. The wet floor fell out from under his feet as the water rose around him, sudden changes and obstacles on the riverbed that almost made him trip obscured by the running water.

 

His only company was empty brush and a couple of waterfowl that cautiously watched him shiver from the bank as he continued into the water, finally taking off with indignant squawks when they deemed him too large and obtrusive to tolerate any longer.

 

He found the deepest part of the river he could, water parting around his hips and in miniature gouges where his fingers trawled across the surface. The first few violent shivers had been conquered as his body became accustomed to the cold, subsiding into a thrumming numbness that warned him to get done with whatever he was doing fast. 

 

Now considerably more awake, he busied himself with washing the accumulated grime and blood off his skin, cupping water in hands to rub himself down, exhaling sharply every time the wind rolling over his shoulders brought another wave of goosebumps. 

 

It was still dark by the time he got out of the river, the sky just tinged with the suggestion of sunrise, vivid streaks of orange and purple painting the horizon where it was visible through the brush. Arthur quickly got dressed, kicking more tinder into the fire and combing wet hands through his dirty hair in an attempt to slick it back like pomade would.

 

Though he was shivering violently, he felt refreshed and knelt closer to the growing fire, warming his hands against it. The firelight danced through his flexed fingers, casting an odd shadow onto his face as it performed its ever changing choreography. His skin tightened as he dried off, the mixture of cool morning air and insistent warmth from the fire dispatching water with opposing temperatures in a way that left him feeling lopsided.

 

Wiping his hands against his jeans to wick any remnants of his quick washup left, he took a knee, looked over at the beaver and drew his knife, softly tapping the blade against the heel of his palm. The beaver's eye was glassy, a reflection of the fire jumping across its curved surface, almost daring Arthur to maintain eye contact with the life he'd cut off. 

 

He couldn't, shying away from the accusatory gaze as he rolled the corpse onto its back and began delicately carving the hide away from its body.

 

☼

 

The sizzle the meat made when it hit the hot grill assuaged any guilt Arthur may have felt about the trophy killing, smoke from fat hitting the fire mixing with the last bits of water being burnt out of the logs. The sun was well out by now, crawling slowly up the sky as if it wasn't quite ready to wake up yet- Arthur finished the last of his coffee, carefully maneuvering around the bitter dregs that caught on the bottom of his cup.

 

He served himself meat straight off the grill, using his knife as a utensil- stray rosemary leaves were bitter on the roast skin of the beaver, the meat itself tough despite the amount of fat the animal had carried. Arthur tried to enjoy it the best he could, staring out over the river where the waterfowl had resumed their positions, keeping a suspicious eye on him. Forcing himself to finish a couple more pieces of meat so he wouldn’t fall out of his saddle, he swallowed roughly and stowed the rest of the carved game in waxed leather, tucking it into his satchel.

 

Shaking his cup out onto the fire and whistling to call Orville closer, he hooked it back on his belt then tightened the straps to her saddle; the beaver pelt would stay good indefinitely so he had as much time as he wanted to meander about before getting it to the Trapper. As his body went into autopilot, taking his tent down and putting out the fire, he thought of what he'd make out of the white pelt. A pair of gloves, dense and warm, or a vest with the glossy, luxurious fur accenting its chest panels. He toyed with the idea of getting something made for Charles, but struck it away as soon as it came- the man likely wouldn't want anything to do with it.

 

Maybe they'd go hunting together again...he could take the pelt of their game and make something from it, a coat from a whitetail or even- physically shaking his head to clear it, Arthur blinked and stared into one of Orville's big eyes.

 

"You gotta kick me next time I start thinkin' about courtin’ him with gifts like some dandy."

 

She huffed in response and started forward, expectantly nosing at his hand for a treat. 

 

Opening his palm for her to nuzzle and grinning at how her ears flicked back at its emptiness, he ruffled her mane and said, "I know, girl. Let's go."

 

☼

 

The sun was high in the sky, overbearing heat back in full force as he made his way down the main street of Van Horn. Arthur was leaning slightly forward over Orville's neck, the small of his back damp with sweat and a look on his face nasty enough that the few drunks sitting on the run down porches of the lawless trading post didn't so much as make eye contact with him.

 

He steadfastly continued forward down the street, the hotel at the end of it his beacon of salvation; the rotten boards and empty windows looked as inviting as the grandest Saint Denis parlor house when he imagined the bath waiting inside.

 

Picking up the pace for the final stretch that separated them from his goal, he dismounted and had Orville hitched off pure muscle memory and was at the hotel’s welcoming counter with a dollar twenty five cents in his hand before the shopkeep could say hello.

 

He didn't look surprised at Arthur's appearance, but more startled by the swiftness with which he was approached.

 

Visibly ruffled, he said, "Can I help you?"

 

Arthur put the coins on the countertop, pushing them forward as he readjusted his satchel.

 

"Bath. I'll need a bath. And a room."

 

The shopkeep settled as he took the money, thumb flicking the ridged edge of a coin. Business as usual was easy to deal with, even if the business still had flecks of blood dried in its beard. 

 

"I'll have some water boiled for you, it'll be ready in about 20 minutes."

 

"Thank you kindly," Arthur said under his breath as he turned around, reluctantly walking back outside into the sweltering heat; the fever overtaking the land obviously hadn't broken quite yet, early morning the only respite from it. 

 

"Let's get you taken care of, girl," he said as he unlooped the reins hastily thrown over the wooden hitch, Orville following with no complaint except flaring nostrils as she caught her breath. He dug around her saddlebags as they walked, taking another union suit and pair of jeans out of them as they made their way further down the road to the stable, more drunks that Arthur couldn't help categorize as easy targets slumped against the walls of every establishment they passed by. Wasn’t it too hot for them outside? Arthur could barely stay standing.

 

The stable was in much the same shape as the rest of the trading post, although the keeper did try a bit harder to maintain his shop; though the stalls were only half occupied, there was fresh hay and water supplied to the clean horses in them, the keeper sitting on a chair near the entrance fiddling with a knife and roughly carved wooden animal of some sort.

 

His strokes were choppy and unsure, as if he had only just picked up the hobby, and he quickly set it down as Arthur approached, standing and trying his best to look as pleasant as a man with a naturally sour face could.

 

Arthur gave him a once over as he walked into the blessed shade, the extra inch in height and dense frame the man had on him more apparent now that he was standing to greet him.

 

Clearing his throat, he said, "I need a full care package." He lightly tugged at Orville and she bumped her nose on his shoulder. "She's been ridin' hard and needs re-shoeing and general clean up."

 

"Sure, it'll be five dollars," the stablekeep said with a service smile on his face, reaching for her reins.

 

Holding them back and readjusting his grip on the bundle of clothes he had, Arthur raised an eyebrow, "Make sure you brush out her mane and tail too. Fix up her braids, they gotten loose. And get her the best feed you got in this place."

 

The stablekeep faltered before smiling genuinely this time, keeping his hand out for the reins, "I can assure you, I'll take care of your horse, mister.."

 

The lie coming smoothly, "Callahan. And you?"

 

"Isaiah. Mr. Callahan, I'll make her look like you got her yesterday."

 

Finally satisfied, Arthur nodded as he put her reins in Isaiah's hand alongside the five odd dollars he owed him. Grabbing him in an awkward handshake before he could withdraw, with the reins and cash flush between them, he said, "I'll be back for her later tonight, Isaiah." 

 

Eyes darting from their clasped hands to Arthur's smile, Isaiah licked at his bottom lip and shook firmly, taking the money and leather as he clicked his tongue for Orville to come to his side.

 

"I look forward to it."

 

Arthur made the circuitous walk back to the hotel, dragging his feet as the sun rode ever higher into the cruelly clear blue sky. The hotelkeeper greeted him as he walked in, calling from behind his counter, "It'll be nearly ready by now, feel free to head on in. If you want any assistance from a lady, just holler." 

 

Arthur didn’t answer as he walked back, hat and satchel in hand and on the nearest chair as soon as he entered the bathroom- the surface of the water was smooth and glassy, thick steam coming off it promising to burn anything that so much as dipped in. 

 

He undressed, discarding dirty clothes off to the side in a provided washbasin, fresh ones folded neatly on the chair for him afterwards. He had a couple of hours in the room to himself; the trading post didn't get any traffic that wasn't there to drink or quickly pass through and avoid drunkards. 

 

He looked at the water and how the steam that came off it was already condensing on his skin into a dewy sweat; it was too hot to get into, so instead, he set himself by the washbasin and began the chore of cleaning his clothes. The water in the shallow bucket gradually turned dark as he worked, rough scrubbing and a soapy lather cleaning the garments best it could. Though no stranger to the job himself, he felt a newfound appreciation for the girls in camp bubble up inside him as he fell into the pattern, hands roughly grabbing at new bits of fabric to pull across the ridged board, bubbles crawling higher up his arms the longer he went. The occasional rivet on his jeans scraping against the washboard made a noise jarringly different than that of sloshing, wet fabric and he tried to avoid them so as not to pull his pants apart.

 

His mind wandered, slowly drifting between the dwindling supplies in his satchel, how he'd have to divvy up money back at camp, how Charles had said killing for sport was a waste. How he realized he actually cared about what Charles thought of him. 

 

A knock at the door caught him out of his thoughts, hands fully stopping in the basin where they had already begun to still. 

 

The knock repeated in the silence before a voice sweetly said, "Need any help in there?"

 

"Nah, I'm alright," Arthur replied stiltedly, for the second time that day extremely aware of his nakedness as he knelt at the washbasin.

 

“Let me know if that changes,” the voice called out, already fading as the girl walked away.

 

Deeming the clothes clean enough, he rinsed them off in the now murky water one more time before wringing them out and hanging them in front of the fireplace, muting the orange light that peeked through. 

 

He stepped carefully into the bath, the water still scalding, slowly allowing it to climb over his legs, gut, and chest and send cold pinpricks down his limbs as he adjusted to the temperature.

 

He took his time in it, relishing the chance to soak and not think about any of his impending responsibilities. Lathering cheap soap in a washcloth, he lazily scrubbed himself down and then started to work the tallow into his greasy hair. It didn't smell like anything, he noted appreciatively as he rinsed his hair out, breath catching as soapy water streamed into his eyes.

 

Leaning back against the tub, he let the warm water envelop him, soothing his sore muscles. Rubbing slow, insistent circles against a knot on his shoulder, he thought again about Charles, much as he'd been doing near constantly for the days since he'd seen him. How his eyes changed as Arthur talked about the pelt hunting until he was sure the memory warped itself unrecognizable from the actual event, a stark gaze full of exaggerated disgust and disappointment all that remained.

 

It took another knock on the door to bring him back to earth and realize time had passed; the water was barely above lukewarm, his entire body tense, hand clenched painfully on his deltoid. Releasing himself and dipping his dry hand back into the water, he called out, "Yeah?" 

 

"We got another customer who requested the bath, sir."

 

"Yeah, alright."

 

He got up, water streaming down his body cooling in contact with the air and causing an involuntary shiver; he reached for a towel and started patting himself dry as he exited the tub, the fire much lower than it was when he got in. Sloppily affixing it around his waist, he retrieved his clothes from in front of the fireplace, jeans still slightly damp. 

 

Not quite dry clothes in hand, he stood for a moment in the middle of the washroom, towel hanging off his hips as his brain lagged; a series of decisions had to be made to get out of there and he was stuck on what to do first. Opting for the most obvious to spur him out of his stillness, he set his drying clothes back on the rack and went for his clean ones to get dressed.

 

Pulling it on, his union suit stuck to his slightly damp skin in an echo of his ride earlier that morning. Leaving the top few buttons undone as the hotelkeeper knocked at the door again, he hurriedly tugged on his jeans and fastened his suspenders, leaving them down at his sides as he gathered the rest of his belongings. 

 

The hotelkeep was waiting outside the door when he finally emerged, easily flirting with a giggling girl at his side. He stopped to look when Arthur appeared and placed a room key on top of the pile he had in his arms.

 

"Room C at the far end of the hallway upstairs," he smiled, Arthur humming in response as the man slipped past him into the door with the laughing girl close behind. The walk to the front desk was short, wooden staircase easy to find and navigate when he peeked over the bundle in his arms to see the steps. He easily found his room- awkwardly unlocking the door and nudging it open with his hip, he swayed for a moment as he stood there, still slightly dizzy from having had a hot bath on a mostly empty stomach. He laid his freshly washed clothes over the dresser to finish drying out, sitting heavily on the thin bed as the poorly made wooden frame complained and blearily thought, _That bath made me feel worse._

 

He considered putting down his thoughts in his journal or at least seeing about the availability of food downstairs, but the facsimile of a proper night's sleep that the ratty mattress and moth eaten covers promised was too alluring for him to ignore; kicking off his boots, he laid back on top of the sheets and allowed it to overtake him, last conscious thought an echo of Charles' disapproving voice.

☼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That shadow my likeness that goes to and fro seeking a livelihood,  
> chattering, chaffering,  
> How often I find myself standing and looking at it where it flits,  
> How often I question and doubt whether that is really me;


	6. To a stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giving it back to Charles, he suddenly wished he could keep the cigarette a bit longer. Smoke it long enough that the taste would stick to his tongue and the smell would sink into his clothes, his very skin, a lingering reminder that was private and outspoken all at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got a job moving out finishing up my associates life is going on at an accelerated pace and i want to see this through. leave comments if youd like, id love to see what people think of this!

"I missed you last night, Mr. Callahan."

 

Isaiah's smile was lopsided, only half of his face moving with it. He was refastening Orville's saddle as Arthur stood in the doorway of the stable, its leather gleaming with polish. 

 

Rubbing the back of his neck, Arthur yawned around his words, "Real sorry, Isaiah. Got caught up in my own head and ended up fallin' asleep."

 

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure you'll make it up to me some other time," he tugged the last strap tight and adjusted it on her back, hand lingering on the saddlehorn when she tossed her head impatiently.

 

"You could join me for breakfast if you was to abandon your post for an hour or two," Arthur casually offered as he rummaged through his satchel for a box of cigarettes, tapping one against the heel of his palm to settle the tobacco before letting the thing hang off his lips. 

 

Isaiah leaned forward on Orville, arms crossed on her back as he looked at Arthur, considering it. His eyes were curious as he watched Arthur search his pockets for a light, withdrawing the last matchbook in his possession only to crumple it with a curse when it revealed itself empty.

 

Before he could request it, Isaiah started forward towards him, "Here," Lighting the last match in a tab against the rough grain of his shoe, he held the small flame out to Arthur in a cupped hand to protect it from any nonexistent wind that would threaten it. A habit borne of care, the glow of it softly brightened his palm as he offered it forward.

 

Leaning into the light, Arthur sucked on his cigarette a few times until the flow of acrid smoke was settled, exhaling off to the side, "Thanks kindly."

 

Isaiah dropped the spent match on the floor, slowly grinding the phosphorous tip into the dirt. He held the now empty matchbook in hand, staring at it as he methodically folded it closed and tucked it away, Arthur taking a drag as he watched and waited.

 

Haltingly, Isaiah finally said, "I think I'll have to pass you up on breakfast." He slowly sat back in his chair and Arthur noticed a new chunk of wood taking more of a shape than the one from yesterday. There was enough detail that he could guess it was a bear, though its body was still smooth and free from texture. Isaiah's pocket knife hung loosely in his hand as he crossed his legs and picked it up, stroking the rudimentary carving with a thumb.

 

Arthur stood there for a beat, silently offering the chance to reconsider as he smoked and looked at the variety of tools hanging from the stable wall, the other man steadfastly looking at his hands instead. 

 

The peculiar tone of voice taken when trying not to be obvious about feeling put out taking over, "I'll be seeing you around then, Isaiah." 

 

Arthur whistled around his cigarette and Orville quickly came to his side, coat gleaming and saddlebags looking heavier than they had when he dropped her off.

 

He didn't get an answer, but he could feel Isaiah's eyes on him as he got in the saddle and left, hairs on the back of his neck tingling until he was well down the road and back in front of the hotel that had been his very salvation the day before. 

 

He needed to get back to camp and deal with whatever Dutch needed him for next. There was always something, only ever a chance to rest when he ran off on his own where they couldn't find him.  


 

Loosely hitching Orville back up, he took a drag and ashed his cigarette against the wooden post, keeping it between his fingers as he walked back into the building. 

 

The hotelkeep glanced up disinterestedly when he entered before returning to picking dirt out from under his nails with a dull knife, "I'll need that key back by noon."

 

Arthur didn't answer as he walked up the stairs and again forced his sticky door open with a hip, holstered gun digging into his thigh. His clothes had finished drying overnight and the only things left for him in the room were three more hours of shade and privacy, if he so chose to stay.

 

Leaning against the rickety door, he looked around at the spare lodgings. Didn't think of much at all as he leaned there, the haze of the morning wrapped around him like a blanket. Another drag as the cigarette began dwindling, grimacing at the harsh bitterness of cheap tobacco as it rolled across his tongue and filled his lungs with a slow burn. Didn't like smoking much, but it woke him up and calmed his nerves. 

 

Nerves that had been acting up more and more recently for reasons he couldn't quite place. There was an unexpected sense of relief at being turned down by Isaiah, though he'd invited the man and liked the look of him well enough. It was a small trading post, private, quiet, inundated with enough crime that it was free from the law. Nothing to truly worry about. 

 

And yet.

 

Another drag, another chest half full of harsh smoke and half forgiving air that melted together into one foul thing that felt like it clung to his very guts. 

 

He played with the key to the room in one hand while babysitting the cigarette with the other, flicking it to discard excess ash every other minute until it was down to the filter. 

 

Holding it in an outstretched hand, he watched the lazy flow of smoke trace small eddies of wind from the open window's sparse breeze- No way these damn things were as good for you as all them doctors claimed. Burnt something awful to partake in and he'd seen them exacerbate particularly nasty sounding coughs in near every town they been through- but he'd be damned if they didn't make everything seem just a little more manageable.

 

Grinding the smoldering remains out on the door, he flicked the crushed filter away and cleared his throat against the smokes lingering presence. Pushing off, he sloppily folded his clothes and made his way downstairs, boots clicking distinctively against the wooden steps and punctuated by the clatter of his room key being tossed onto the counter.

 

"Y'all come back now," was the hotelkeep's only response, still fussing with his nails.

 

Stowing his clothes in Orville's now near overencumbered saddlebags, Arthur grinned something made of pure delight when he saw all the goodies Isaiah left for him- there were peppermints, fresh vegetables, canned fruits and, underneath it all, a roughly carved wooden figure of what must have been a horse.

 

Holding it up to the light, he admired the thing. Though by no means good, there was an aura of concentration and effort that surrounded it and he kept that same smile on his face as he tucked it carefully back into his saddlebag. There would be time enough to sketch it and write of Isaiah when he got back to camp.

 

☼

 

The riding was easy, if nothing else. 

 

Wind whistled in Arthur’s ears as he made his way home, sky absent of even a wisp of cloud allowing the sun to beat down mercilessly on his back. His light jacket was folded and tucked into the crease of his bedroll, the sleeves of his union suit up past his elbow, revealing the minute scars and freckles painting his arms. Unfortunately, t he breeze did nothing to offset the heat and Arthur bitterly thought to himself, _Moving hot air is still hot air._

 

The bloodied cloth roughly stowed in his pocket from a few days past now wasn’t worth using, as dirty as it was. This, however, did not stop him from using it, wiping sweat off his face and dabbing it on his cuts a couple of times after wetting it from a bottle of moonshine nestled deep in his satchel. Sterilizing his  _ grievous wounds _ , as Charles had said, was a good idea even after cleaning up in a bath.

 

The shine was harsh and bitter, an affront to the senses as much as the carbolic acid well-to-do doctors used as an antiseptic. The brewer obviously hadn’t bothered with filtering it, the astringent taste lingering on his lips as he licked them, face tingling in the breeze as the liquor dried. 

 

The money Arthur carried in his satchel from the debt collection was ignored in the practised way one obtained from years of dirty work; tuck it away in a corner where you can’t be bothered by it until there comes time to spend it off.

 

Ignoring it had been easy, and he had been mostly successful in pushing Charles out of his mind, but without such a strong presence all he had left was Dutch and whatever project he'd be sent out on next.

 

Maybe it'd be a fully baked plan, like the ones that always worked when it was just the three of them. Short, simple, well rehearsed roles to play in towns without law where they only took what they needed and gave the rest away.

 

He dipped his hat lower over his eyes, softly sighing when he noticed Orville's legs already regaining a thin coat of dust.

 

☼

 

As the day dragged on, cool air began counteracting the heat until at last the sun disappeared and took with it most of the overbearing warmth; Arthur rode into camp at nine in the evening without any fanfare, only noticed by Sadie silently watching him from a fire on the outskirts of camp.

 

"Mrs. Adler," Arthur tipped his hat as he steered Orville to the hitching fence, speaking quietly to match her lack of words.

 

She stared balefully at him as he dismounted and fed Orville a treat, eyes yet distrustful of everyone in camp. 

 

Leaving her be, he walked over to Dutch's tent with nods of hello to everyone he passed and began counting out debt money into the fund box along with a few rings and bracelets.

 

Dutch was sitting inside, hat over his eyes and well polished boots propped up on the box that held his gramophone; a mixture of light from the moon and a distant campfire flashed off its needle as it hopped on the grooves of a record, the same off key opera scratchily playing through the horn. It was loud enough that it disguised any noises Arthur made as he entered and leaned against the main support beam of the tent, staring as Dutch dozed in his chair.

 

Hosea quietly joined him, grabbing Arthur's shoulder in a half hug as they watched Dutch.

 

Keeping his voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping man, "Where have you been, old boy?"

 

Arthur grinned and thumbed his nose as a snore caught in Dutch's throat, "Ah, you know. Around."

 

Breaking away from the tent when it was clear he wouldn't be disturbed out of his rest by the sheer weight of their gazes, Arthur sat with Hosea at the camp's table, put at ease by his familiar smile.

 

"Caught one of them pelts you was tellin' me about," Arthur said as he got comfortable, resting a leg on his knee with a hand at his spur, flicking at it to let it spin.

 

Hosea leaned forward, excitement sparkling in his eyes, "And? Which one did you hunt? You did a damn fine job with that bear, was it a wolf or a cougar?"

 

"Nothing quite so fearsome this time, Hosea," Arthur laughed, "It was that big white beaver down near Van Horn. Ride there was Goddamn miserable after Mr. Smith took his leave, got hotter'n sin and twice as sweaty."

 

Amusement painting his face when Arthur mentioned Charles, Hosea leaned back and laced his hands together over his lap. 

 

"Well, a beaver's better than nothing. I'm sure the pelt on it will fetch a good price, those skins are a pretty lucrative trade."

 

"Don't I know it. All them mountain men driftin' through towns come the end of winter, sellin' quite the variety. Beaver's're probably the steadiest source of clean money I can think of, if you're willin' to brave your dick freezin' off."

 

Laughing at his single mindedness, Hosea fondly said, "Welcome home, Arthur."

 

Arthur wiped away the dirt he'd loosened from his spur with a small smile. Hosea was looking expectantly at him, not demanding anything but encouraging him to continue with whatever train of thought he could get a handle on.

 

Mouth opening just slightly, he looked back at Dutch's tent as Hosea looked at him; he licked his lips where they were sticking together, an odd feeling he couldn't quite place hanging over him.

 

"How's Dutch been?"

 

Hosea shrugged, brows knitting just enough to deepen the ever present wrinkles on his forehead.

 

"Been as usual. He isn't listening to me like he did before, but maybe that's just a symptom of growing old." Hosea held back a light cough.

 

"Yeah. Ain't been listening much to me neither," Arthur put both feet back on the ground, leaning in with his elbows on his knees. He looked around before beckoning the older man closer, Hosea obliging with raised eyebrows.

 

"I think Micah could be feedin' him false leads."

 

Eyes sharper, Hosea cocked his head, "What makes you say?"

 

Wiping his hands down his thighs, Arthur quietly continued, "That ferry job was Micah's prod. Hosea, you know damn well we had somethin' goin' on down there and it'd've been clean, quiet and no one- no one woulda died." His hands came together and he picked at a nail, eyes sliding over Hosea to stay fixed on Dutch's tent behind him. "Instead he took up Micah on a ferry job we didn't so much as scout for security before boarding and now look at us. A couple dead with a handful more missing?"

 

Arthur looked at Hosea with a mixture of exasperation and annoyance in his eyes, and a silent request to explain Dutch's behaviors away. He was only met with the serious, thoughtful expression of someone weighing their next words very carefully. 

 

"Dutch has been acting strange, I'll say it. We've been saying it." Hosea smoothed out the front of his vest, not wearing his jacket in the pleasant warmth of the evening. "I've had my own misgivings about Micah, but as of now Dutch only sees him as an asset. He's coming up with a plan and there's something to that. He's never led us wrong yet."

 

"Yeah. It just feels like- feels like things have changed. The world has changed and it don't want folk like us no more." 

 

They sat in silence, Hosea keeping an eye on Arthur as he started wiping dust out of the grooves in his boot, unassured and unsteady on his feet because of it.

 

"It'll work out Arthur. Always does."

 

"Yeah, I know." 

 

A beat passed, Arthur rubbing at the corner of his eye and staring dissatisfied at the ground.

 

"Do you want out?"

 

Arthur balked, jerking his head up, "Hell no, Hosea."

 

"It's alright if you do. John did. I did. I left and tried to make something for myself and Bessie. Only came back because I was too set in my ways."

 

Arthur shifted, not saying anything but clearly listening.

 

Hosea relaxed back in his chair again as he crossed his legs at the ankle, warm eyes on Arthur. 

 

"You're young yet, Arthur. If you-"

 

Waving his hand as he cut him off, "Hosea, I ain't young and this life is the only one I ever known. Hell, you're the closest thing to a daddy I got since my bastard one died and I took his hat off the gallows."

 

He stared at Hosea, consciously lowering his voice from the sudden volume it had ramped to when Pearson turned curiously from the stew pot.

 

"I ain't had nothin' but the gang since I was a boy. I don't know if I could leave." Arthur laughed wryly, "Even if I wanted to."

  
  


Though Arthur's gaze hadn't been accusatory or even angry in the slightest, Hosea still felt a cold, sobering guilt settle on his shoulders.

 

The camp was giving the two men their space, deferring to their seniority though Marston was hovering on the edge of plausible deniability trying to listen in.

 

Hosea leaned forward and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, Arthur looking between it and him curiously. 

 

"I'm sorry, Arthur."

 

He waited until it was clear Hosea wasn't about to supplement the apology, "What for?"

 

"I'm not quite sure." A small, uncertain smile on his face, "Just somehow feels like we've- I've done you wrong."

 

Hosea let his hand remain on a confused Arthur's shoulder for a couple of seconds as he searched for the words he wanted to say and just what he was apologizing for; all he could come up with was a vague sense of regret for the life that Arthur had already long been robbed of.

 

"Just feels like you've been done a bit wrong."

 

Arthur snorted, letting his foot fall heavily back onto the ground, kicking up a small amount of dust as it made contact.

 

"You gettin' soft on me, old man? What the hell're you sorry for? Ain't nobody done me wrong."

 

Falling back into the familiar routine of jabbing insults at each other, Hosea withdrew his hand and scoffed, "Now Arthur, you know I don't expect you to understand all the big words people say, but there's virtue in at least pretending you know what's going on."

 

"Virtue? Ain't none of that in me I'm afraid," Arthur solemnly put a hand over his heart, "All's that's in me is mean, ugly ignorance."

 

"Alright, boy," Hosea laughed and finally turned his attention to John who had been creeping ever closer as they talked quieter.

 

"Come on son, you're not fooling anyone."

 

Shoulders stiffening, John slowly turned to face them.

 

Clearing his throat, he rasped, "How's it goin'?"

  
  


"Well enough, Marston. You never was good at keeping a low profile."

 

John narrowed his eyes and was clearly about to say something that would've blown his already shaky cover when he was interrupted by the distant sound of hoofbeats. John stilled where he was about to quarrel as the three men carefully listened for the source of it, eyes eventually zeroing in on the edge of camp.

 

Where there was before only warm darkness, Lenny emerged, stumbling over his own feet as he ran into the center of camp yelling for everyones attention.

 

"Everyone- everyone! They got Micah! Dutch, they got Micah!" 

 

Hosea was already up trying to calm Lenny down, encouraging him to take a second as he gasped harshly for breath.

 

Lenny swallowed roughly as Dutch almost tripped out of his tent, trying to inconspicuously wipe the sleep out of his eyes, hair mussed from his nap. Shaking Hosea off, he went up to him, "They got Micah, Dutch. He murdered someone over in Strawberry and they arrested him and damn near lynched me too, but I got away." 

 

Arthur was now at Dutch's side, thumbs hooked on his belt

 

"Law finally got Micah? 'Bout time."

 

Dutch narrowed his eyes and almost said something before Lenny continued talking, motioning for his attention, "He killed someone while we were only supposed to be scouting the location and didn't give no warning nor reason, Dutch. He's in the sheriff's, and there's talk of hanging him."

 

"We can only hope."

"Arthur!" Dutch looked over at him reproachfully, thick eyebrows raised in disbelief.

 

"What? The fool brought it on himself!" Voice lowering as he came in closer, "You know my feelings about him, Dutch."

 

"You think I can't see past his bluster to the heart inside? He is a fine man."

 

Backing away as he pointed in the vague direction of Strawberry, Arthur said, "No. I ain't savin' that fool."

 

"Arthur you know damn well I can't do it, my face is plastered all over West Elizabeth. I am  _ asking _ for your help." A beat passed, Arthur avoiding Dutch's eyes as Lenny shakily sat with Hosea at the table, watching them. "He'd do it for you."

 

A few seconds passed as the rest of the gang came to the table to see what was going on; as more eyes burned into him, all waiting to see how he would respond, Arthur grimaced and gripped his belt just a little tighter.

 

Resigned, he finally said, "I don't think he would, but fine. Alright. I'll go save that fool from the shit he's got into now." 

 

"Arthur…"

 

Waving him off, Arthur turned to the table where Lenny was tracing the grain of the wood.

 

"You okay, Lenny?"

 

"Yeah, of course Arthur." 

 

Tired, Arthur looked him up and down before saying, "You don't seem okay."

 

Dutch paced near them before walking back to his tent, "You take that kid into town. Valentine, not Strawberry. Get him drunk," Undoing the flap that closed his lodgings off from the world, he held it open just enough to say, "And Arthur? No crazy business."

 

Arms spread out to his sides, he showed his empty palms to Dutch like it would absolve him, "I've given that up!"

 

Ignoring the obvious attempt at proving his innocence, he continued, "You get Micah out of that jail cell, too."

 

His tent was closed before he could have heard Arthur's quiet response of, "Yeah, alright." 

 

Pulling Lenny to his feet, Arthur wrapped an arm around him as they started walking towards the hitched horses, "Come on Lenny, let's go have a few drinks and see about getting you feelin' better."

 

Lenny nodded, stumbling alongside him as they made their way to his horse, Arthur frowning as he saw the obviously winded animal pawing at the ground; her flaring nostrils, wide eyes and damp coat were enough to convince him not to stress the animal any further.

 

"Goddamn, Lenny, I think we're gonna get you another animal. Maggie is near strung out, did you run her that hard all the way here?"

 

"I was trying to lose a mob, Arthur." His voice was flat and he could almost feel him roll his eyes, "Escaped them a while back but you can't ever be too sure, so I took a roundabout route. They were after my head since I was with Micah."

 

"Yeah, I get it. Been on the run on account of him plenty often myself. Least he got got this time," he chuckled as he imagined Micah getting cartoonishly dogpiled by lawmen, "Maybe it'll teach him a lesson."

 

Arthur grinned at Lenny as he stroked Maggie's neck and Lenny laughed, "I doubt it. Hey, I think I should be able to use Ennis for a quick outing, she could use the exercise."

 

"Sounds fine enough to me. A quick outin', we're really just wantin' for a quiet evenin' with a couple drinks and then we'll come right home."

 

Lenny had finally caught his breath and was looking considerably calmer, hand no longer hovering nervously around his throat.

 

"I'll go grab her, you can head on out to Valentine. Thanks, Arthur."

 

Smiling as he walked towards Orville where she was grazing on the last bits of hay from the day's barrel, he said over his shoulder, “Ain't no problem, Lenny.”

 

Disturbed from her meal, Orville petulantly tried to shake Arthur's grip on her bridle as he re-set it, only going along with his commands when he gave her an oatcake, cooed compliments and a quick brush down. 

 

He mounted her, following the road the gang had beat into the earth during their short time at the overlook. Dust came up in small clouds even with Orville's delicate steps, undoing the hasty brushdown he'd given her moments before.

 

Arthur was checking his ammo reserves and letting her get them out of the cover of the woods, reloading his revolver and listening for the soft click each bullet made when fully set. Flicking his wrist to jolt the chamber closed, he spun it, only then noticing the man resting against a tree,  watching him.  

 

“Startled me, Mr. Smith.”

 

“Mr. Morgan.” Charles took a drag off the freshly rolled cigarette held loosely between his forefinger and thumb, tip glowing a bright cherry red in the darkness.

 

Gently pulling Orville in an arc to get closer, he holstered his gun and reached down, motioning for the cigarette. Charles raised his eyebrows before passing it over with half a smile and a shake of the head;

 

“Where are you heading so soon after getting back? Anything to do with all that yelling about Micah?"

 

Arthur raised the cigarette up to his lips, relishing the peculiar taste that came from the mixture of sweet tobacco and bearberry leaves inside it. Holding the smoke in his lungs, he tried to memorize how it burned differently inside him before exhaling and watching it disappear in the air between them. 

 

Giving it back to Charles, he suddenly wished he could keep it a bit longer. Smoke it long enough that the taste would stick to his tongue and the smell would sink into his clothes, his very skin, a lingering reminder that was private and outspoken all at once.

 

He cleared his throat and looped Orville's reins around his fist as Charles took a drag.

 

“Kinda. Lenny near got killed because of him and now I'm tasked with helpin' him calm down. Gonna head on out to Valentine for a couple drinks, see about gettin' the kid to relax.”

 

“I see.” Another drag. “Well, have fun with it.”

 

“You could come with, y’know. Might be fun having a third out on the town.”

 

A small grin as Charles rested his hand on the barrel of the rifle that was propped by his side, “I'm on watch, Morgan. Can't exactly abandon my post.”

 

“Aw, you know nothing ever happens out here, Mr. Smith!” A mischievous look stole over Arthur as he pulled at Orville's reins just enough to make her rear up in a playful, showy way. “Ain't nobody gonna miss you for an evening! Help us forget about that ugly bastard before I gotta go save him!”

 

“Get out of here before you really do make me skip.” Pointing accusatorily at him with his cigarette, Charles’ eyebrows were raised with suppressed laughter, sparse moonlight bouncing off his eyes and illuminating his face in a way that made Arthur itch to draw it.

 

Breathlessly, “Well, we'll see you later tonight then.”

 

“Happy trails, Arthur.”

 

Turning to leave, a giddy lightness overtook him, fingertips tingling with it as he gently kicked at Orville's sides. Rejection didn't trigger the feeling of being put out and unwanted that Isaiah had; it was more like the simple possibility for  _ later _ had opened up, and by god, he was going to chase it. 

☼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon  
> you,  
> []  
> I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you when I sit alone  
> or wake at night alone,  
> I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,  
> I am to see to it that I do not lose you.


	7. When I peruse the conquer'd fame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haltingly, he continued, "No use losin' my mind over somethin' I can't do shit about, Charles. The gang comes first, not me nor my ideals," He looked around, searching for some sort of landmark that would reorient him, the sun still too bright for his eyes despite cloud cover. Quietly, he asked, "Were you still wanting to come with me on that collection?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fixed a minor continuity error but dont think too hard about it

"Arthur."

 

There was no response from the man splayed out on the ground. Charles dropped into a crouch and stared at his lax face; he looked like a different person when his brow wasn't furrowed and the lines crinkling the edges of his eyes were hardly visible. A more peaceful one. 

 

His hand hovered over the peaceful face for just a second before firmly slapping it.

 

" _ Arthur." _

 

He startled awake with a sharp gasp, eyes snapping open as he lurched up. His hand was resting on his revolver, instinct curling fingers around its handle though one stayed off the trigger. Disciplined, even in his sleep.

 

It took him a second to register what had happened and he fell back onto the grass when he did, rasping, "Charles."

 

"Mm. You know, when my friends say they're 'just going for a quick drink and a quiet evening', I generally expect to see them back at camp the same night."

 

Arthur didn't reply, instead rubbing viciously at his face and groaning under his breath,  _ Stupid, Morgan, stupid stupid. _

 

Charles laughed as he settled onto the ground, legs crossed beneath him. The sparse grass in the area was in different stages of health, the greener, plumper stalks crushed underneath Arthur while Charles snapped dry ones with every movement. They felt akin to burrs, sharp tips poking him through his pants every time he shifted.

 

"Do you know where you are, Arthur?"

 

He placed his waterskin in the mans lap, silently encouraging him to sit back up. Arthur's face was faintly red where the sun had kissed it too long, lending a slightly painful looking rosiness to his weather worn features. He'd obviously passed out without his hat to cover him, seeing as Charles had retrieved it from the lowest branch of a nearby tree. 

 

He waited for an answer to the (mostly) rhetorical question, but Arthur silently settled an arm over his face, hiding his eyes in the crook of his elbow.

 

"You're about 9 miles south of Valentine and Orville is nowhere to be seen-" Charles dropped the worn gambler’s hat on Arthur’s head with a small smile on his face, "God only knows how you got down here on foot after getting drunk enough to have a whole bar doing the  _ can-can _ …kinda makes me wish I did come with you."

 

"I did  _ what _ ?"

 

He laughed as Arthur finally sat up, only then realizing there was something in his lap. He put his hat on proper and groggily drank as Charles continued, water escaping from the corners of his mouth when he overestimated just how much he could take at a time.

 

"Whole line of men kicking their legs in a bar, sounds like quite a sight. Lenny said you knew that dance by heart."

 

And that was when he choked, almost spraying Charles with flecks of water as he started to say, "Lenny-" before swiftly getting cut off by his own coughs. Charles patiently waited as he cleared his lungs and finally croaked out, "Where's Lenny?"

 

"He made it home, Arthur. Got caught by the local Sheriff and spent the night in a cell for public drunkenness, but had enough to pay his bail and managed to get to camp a few hours ago." Arthur visibly relaxed and sipped more cautiously from the waterskin. "I set out to track you down when he said the last he remembered was a holler of, ' _ You'll never take me alive'." _

 

"That certainly sounds like me."

 

"It's why I followed up so quick. Wasn't that hard to track you; a drunken fool is only so stealthy."

 

Arthur laughed as he handed the depleted waterskin back to Charles, "Even sober I ain't so stealthy to avoid gettin' tracked by you, Charles." 

 

His face warmed at the compliment, fingers tapping a rhythm against the waterskin in his lap. He'd have to refill it, light as it was now, a fair amount of its contents having missed Arthur's mouth completely, instead painting his shirt with dark, wet spots. 

 

Arthur grunted as he got up and roughly brushed off the dirt sticking to the seat of his pants. The faint grass stains on his knees and ass were more apparent now that he was uncurled, tingeing the light denim a soft green. He swayed where he stood and was about to attempt walking before thinking better of it and putting a hand on Charles’ shoulder, leaning slightly on him to stave off the vertigo threatening to put him back on the ground.

 

"Need to stop drinkin' so much," he said, more to himself than anyone else.

 

"We could all do with a little less drinking."

 

A hum of agreement and then he pushed off, fixing a sleeve where it had come unrolled. He was still groggy and slightly disoriented, the water doing little to soothe his hangover beyond the parched throat that came paired with it.

 

"There more of a reason you came n' got me, Charles? Or did you just miss seein’ the prettiest face in camp?"

 

"Wouldn't exactly call you pretty Arthur," he grinned at Arthur's snort and took on a faux thoughtful tone, "But then again, I wouldn't call myself pretty, so I don't have much of a leg to stand on." 

 

"Well, I wouldn't call you ugly neither, Mr. Smith," his hands came to rest on his hips as he turned to Charles in a form that vaguely reminded him of a scolding mother, "You didn't answer me."

 

He pulled himself to his feet with the hand Arthur offered, flicking a stray blade of grass off his knee, "I've a whole list of tasks assigned to us. Trelawny's shown up in camp with a tip about Sean. Micah's yet to be freed from Strawberry. Strauss told me of some new debts." 

 

"Sean's alive? Well, God damn, guess he really is as lucky as he keeps insisting."

 

"Alive and kicking. He's with bounty hunters and they're transporting him to be hanged, presumably. If we time it right, we can pluck him up from the edge of Blackwater."

 

Arthur nodded, eyes more alert and brow slightly furrowed as he absorbed the information. "I already know about Micah, lemme know what Strauss told you."

 

"Collections. There's a few all over the place," Charles looked at Arthur carefully, searching for any hint of recognition, "Closest one from a man named Downes." 

 

Arthur nodded and was about to say something when Charles cut him off, "Thought the name was familiar, so I stopped in town before I came for you. He runs an alms drive for the local homeless."

 

"That so?"

 

"Yeah. I even added to the coffer- gave him a dollar the other day.” Arthur’s eyebrows raised at this but he didn’t comment. Charles paused for a moment, then continued, “Rode by his place real quick, nothing there but a rundown farm with the saddest crop you've ever seen to it."

 

Charles was staring at Arthur now, seeking... _ something _ in a way that he shied away from. 

 

Quietly, "How much he take out?" 

 

"Thirty five."

 

Arthur whistled low and slowly kneaded a knuckle just above his eye.

 

"Why on God's green earth would a man with shit to his name take out that much money from a shark as obvious as Strauss?"

 

"People do strange things." 

 

"Strange or not, it don't change that I gotta collect on it, I suppose." His hand dropped and he avoided looking at Charles, compartmentalizing whatever this new information triggered in him as he said, "Does make me wonder whether Strauss deliberately picks up the lowest, most desperate bastards he can find for his business."

 

Charles narrowed his eyes and hummed, not giving Arthur the laugh he was searching for.

 

Haltingly, he continued, "No use losin' my mind over somethin' I can't do shit about, Charles. The gang comes first, not me nor my ideals," He looked around, searching for some sort of landmark that would reorient him, the sun still too bright for his eyes despite cloud cover. Quietly, he asked, "Were you still wanting to come with me on that collection?"

 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll come with you. But we should get back to camp to check with Trelawny- Sean may have to come first."

 

Arthur brightened at that, despite the dubious mood they had managed to cultivate, and Charles couldn't help but melt a little in response.

 

☼

 

"You know, I don't think I've rid behind someone on a horse since I was a bird."

 

Charles tugged at Taima's reins, guiding her away from a nearby crop of rocks. "That so?" 

 

"Most certainly is." One hand was on Charles' shoulder, the other resting on his holstered revolver. "Thought I'd be too big for Taima to carry us both, but she's full of surprises."

 

"She most certainly is." 

 

Arthur barked out a laugh at Charles parroting him and gave him a clap on the shoulder. The ride drug on, every bump in Taima's gait jostling them closer together until Arthur was near flush with Charles' back, his arm the only thing keeping them as respectable a distance he could manage away.

 

They both decided not to comment on it.

 

"Taima's sturdy. She's been with me a while and hopefully will remain a while to come."

 

Arthur hummed and said, "Did you see Orville? In town or thereabouts?"

 

"Yeah, hitched outside the bar. I dropped her in the stable for you, fed and watered. Don’t worry, we’ll stop by and get her."

Taima made a particularly rough jump down a small ledge and Arthur's hand flew to clutch Charles’ side, bunching up the fabric of his blue spotted shirt. He just ghosted the skin underneath it and Charles straightened at the suggestion of its touch.

 

"Sorry," he heard mumbled softly behind him, and the hand at his side disappeared. 

 

☼

 

Trelawny tutted at them as they rode back into camp, Orville's ears flicking back at the noise. She right away didn't like the slicked down man and kept a close eye on him as Arthur dismounted.

 

"Late as ever, gentlemen. I know I said Sean wasn't in immediate danger, but a little pep in your step wouldn't have hurt, would it?"

 

Charles didn't answer, allowing Arthur to deal with the well groomed man as he took Orville's reins and led their horses to the water trough. Kieran tentatively said hello and offered to take the horses, but Charles waved him off and he quickly fell back, still too nervous around everyone to try harder at any interaction.

 

Charles halfway listened as they talked, more focused on recalling the journal’s spread illustrating Sean's return; if they succeeded when he didn't know about it, the best course of action would be to simply go along with whatever happened and hope it went the same.

 

"-Charles. Charles." 

 

Humming as he turned to face them, he gave the two men his full attention. 

 

"Yeah?" 

 

Arthur cocked his head, "Lost you for a second there, friend. You hear anything we say?"

 

"Sean's on the outskirts of Blackwater with a band of bounty hunters and to intercept them and fetch him, we'll need to leave before dawn." He dropped the leads he had been absently holding and let the horses wander into the company of the other animals. Kieran coaxed Taima over with a treat hidden in the palm of his hand and gently pet her snout when she was near enough.

 

"No amount of caution is undue and the timing will need to be exact if we're to get him out in one piece."

 

Trelawny nodded, a sparkle in his eye as he looked him up and down. 

 

"And what's your opinion of the plan? Do you think we can achieve all we're hoping to?"

 

"I think it'll work out fine, Trelawny."

 

☼

 

Falling to the ground with a dull thud, Sean stared up at the newly breaking sky for a moment to wait out the dizziness of blood suddenly not being pooled in his head. 

 

"You know, you were a lot prettier when I was upside-down, English."

 

Arthur turned to Charles as he holstered his knife and said, "Well, 'least he actually called me pretty in the first place."

 

Charles laughed from where he was liberating a pocket watch from a corpse who's face more resembled ground chuck than man; he unclasped it and backed away from the body, dropping it in a pocket. "You can keep on asking him for compliments then, Arthur."

 

Sean stumbled to his feet, almost tripping before bodily grabbing Arthur for support, "What was that?"

 

"Nothin', you damn fool. All the bloods been rushin' to your head for the past however long and it's made you red as a tomato n’ just as intelligent." 

 

"Ah, but nothin' can keep Sean MacGuire down for long! Look at me, 30 seconds free of restraints and ready to wreak havoc on all those who had wronged me!"

 

Arthur looked dryly first at Sean clutching his shirt for dear life and then at the corpses littering the area he had dispatched with Javier and Charles. Some were more intact than others: closer range shotgun wounds that reduced limbs to wet stumps versus small, neat holes from hunting rifles peppering torsos and heads. All were very dead, with no help from the irishman.

 

"Okay, kid. Javier!" The man perked up from where he was appraising a body, Arthur calling again, "I know it's still real early, but you think you can take Sean back to camp? Me n’ Charles got business to attend to." 

 

"Yeah, no problem! Let me finish freeing these fine extensions of the law of their valuables and then he can ride sidesaddle with me."

 

Sean unsteadily sat back down when Arthur shook his grip, the red of his face slowly evening out into a blank pallor that almost glowed in the dim light before dawn. There was an assortment of purple and yellow bruises peeking out from beneath his shirt, likely courtesy of his captors, the whites of his eyes most noticeably affected by his stint upside-down; popped veins painted them red and made the pale green-blue of his iris' even more noticeable.

 

Arthur stared at him for a second before halfway turning towards Charles- Sean was obviously more shaken up than he wanted them to believe, but he wasn't exactly in a position to criticize. Laughing off problems wasn't his hand, but he was still well versed in pushing shit down to deal with more pressing issues. Nothing can catch up with you if you refuse to slow down.

 

"Fuck off, English, I'm fine. I see the way you're starin' at me."

 

"Ain't lookin' at you at all, boy."

 

He stayed on the ground, sullenly watching his slightly shaking hands, all bravado from his earlier outburst replaced with a combination of shock and dizziness.

 

Arthur kept half an eye on him, reloading his weapons and wiping them off where blood had spattered. Sean didn't respond to it, if he'd noticed, instead just trying to clean himself up as much as he could, brushing back unwashed hair with his hands and adjusting his cuffs to cover the bruises crawling over his arms.

 

He waited and watched until Charles had searched the last of the remaining men and he was satisfied Sean wouldn't pass out before leaving to join him. Their shoulders bounced together, Arthur's hand knocking against Charles' in a way he didn’t immediately pull away from- the small point of contact was more comforting than he was willing to admit.

 

He holstered his weapons and sighed, "With Sean comin' home, Dutch'll wonder why I ain't done similar for Micah."

 

Charles was rubbing his fingers together, friction forming the small amount of gunpowder, blood and dirt stuck on them into little flecks that he wiped off on his shirt. 

 

"Micah's a snake."

 

He said it plainly, without any conviction beyond that of a man who knew he was right. 

 

Arthur glanced back at Javier where he was offering a hand to Sean, easily pulling him to his feet and chatting about everything he'd missed. He looked up when he felt eyes on him, giving Arthur what was probably meant to be a reassuring wave as he led Sean to his horse.

 

Arthur turned back to Charles, motioning for him to follow as he started climbing the hill they'd left Orville and Taima on, "The more I think on that ferry job, the more it don't make sense. I don't even know what really happened on that boat and no-one seems to think it's important enough to tell me." He took his hat off, smoothing his hair back before firmly replacing it, "Just keep gettin' told 'somethin' real bad happened and we had to get up and move,  _ now. _ '"

 

Charles thought of an answer to the implied question as they mounted their horses and rode at a brisk trot back to the river boundary that would get them out of Blackwater. Leaving sooner rather than later was smart- law had to have been alerted by somebody over such an extended firefight and the scene would be crawling with them and Pinkertons before long.

 

"I was there, but I wasn't really part of the action. As I recall, I arrived a little later than you had- aside from providing cover fire as everyone scattered, the most I did was grab the barrel of a rifle to divert it, getting a nasty burn in the process." 

 

Arthur snorted, gently guiding Orville away from deeper water as they crossed the river, "Who was gettin' shot at, you took that desperate a measure?"

 

Charles looked evenly over at him, a small, strange smile on his face. 

 

"I guess I can't quite remember. Lots of things were happening. I must've acted on instinct."

 

Arthur didn't see Charles in that first blush of morning as the sun grew on the horizon, refracted in infinities on the water's choppy surface. He didn't see his smile or the way his eyes lingered on his shoulders, and by the time he turned to check that he was still there, the moment had passed and all he saw was Charles staring straight ahead as he snapped his reins to ride alongside him.

 

☼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I peruse the conquer'd fame of heroes and the victories  
> of mighty generals, I do not envy the generals,  
> Nor the President in his Presidency, nor the rich in his great  
> house,  
> But when I hear of the brotherhood of lovers, how it was with  
> them,  
> How together through life, through dangers, odium, unchanging,  
> long and long,  
> Through youth and through middle and old age, how unfaltering,  
> how affectionate and faithful they were,  
> Then I am pensive—I hastily walk away fill'd with the bitterest  
> envy.


	8. Not heat flames up and consumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's to be done of it all, it just takes the idea.

Arthur tapped his pencil against the fresh paper of his journal, leaving a few small marks of graphite on it. Annoyed, he brushed them away, smudging the page.

 

Three faint lines stared up at him from where they marred the creamy, once clear paper. 

 

He briefly considered tearing it out, but that would sacrifice the sketch of everyone celebrating he'd done on the previous spread. Instead, he began to write.

 

_ Got Sean. The dumbass started running his mouth soon as he saw us, but we could all tell he was relieved. Last minute rescue from hanging will do that to a man. _

 

He lifted his pencil and looked around at the camp full of people slowly getting drunk off stolen whisky. Jack was shrieking with his mother, likely excited about getting to stay up so late, while Sean sloshed liquor about and orated his daring escape from atop the camps table; embellishing and fabricating most, if not all, of it. Javier and Charles were willing to let him have his moment, good naturedly sitting by the fire with their drinks and talking quietly between themselves.

 

He took a quick sip from his own bottle to contribute to the pleasant buzz he'd cultivated, bracing against the mouth numbing alcohol before bouncing his pencil against the paper again. 

 

_ Dutch keeps eyeing me something awful from his tent. May have to wrap up celebrations and get to Strawberry soon, loathe as I am to actually do it. _

 

He restlessly tapped his heel as he looked around, eyes wandering but not settling on any one thing. Finally, with a sigh, he blew on the page to displace any remaining pencil dust and shut it, tucking the journal back into his satchel. He doubted he’d be able to write anything else tonight, so he may as well enjoy the party.

 

He held onto the moment for a while, savoring all the little sounds and sights that accompanied the gang at their happiest. Mary-Beth was dancing with Tilly, spinning in circles that got ever looser the more they had to drink. Karen was sitting beside Sadie, trying to coax her into the fold of the celebrations. Hosea was watching over it all as he sat beside the crate of drinks, seemingly unending in its contents. Their energy was infectious and he began grinning despite himself, quietly humming in tune with the slurred song being tossed around the camp. His ears perked at the telltale sound of a guitar being tuned; Javier was plucking carefully at the strings of his instrument and waiting for Arthur to find his gaze. 

 

The man grinned at him across the fire, light from the flames flickering across his face and making his eyes glint, even with the distance. He playfully nudged Charles where he was sitting next to him until he got up and again they exchanged a few words punctuated by Javier's loud laugh.

 

Charles started walking towards him. 

 

Arthur cocked his head and watched as he slowly came near. He was walking carefully, as if weighing each individual step out and deciding if it was really worth it to continue. He played this song and dance with himself as Arthur looked on, grinning especially wide at the earnest concentration on his face.

 

When he finally made it to Arthur's tent, Strawberry was all but forgotten, a mild curiosity left as he leaned back and stared.

 

“Mr. Morgan,” Charles said before holding out his hand, “Would you be interested in joining me for a smoke?”

 

“A formal invitation for a cigarette?” he put on a faux thoughtful expression as he took the offered hand, holding it for a moment before pulling himself up, “What’s the occasion, Mr. Smith?”

 

“Do I need one?” he cocked his head, not letting go of Arthur’s hand.

 

“...Guess not.” 

 

He was warm enough that it was a shock when he finally let go, and Arthur automatically slipped his hand into a pocket to try and preserve some of the sensation. 

 

“Let’s head out then.”

 

☼

 

They walked further out than Arthur expected for a simple smoke, but he didn't hate the privacy. The more they had, the less he felt he had to disguise his stares. That, combined with the darkness that he was sure (at least relatively) hid his gaze, made it extraordinarily easy to get lost looking at Charles. 

 

He was rolling his mixture of bearberry and tobacco into a tight cigarette as Arthur watched, almost paying more attention to him than he was his own box of smokes. He cleared his throat when Charles licked a stripe across the paper to seal it and tapped the box against his palm to settle the tobacco before taking one out and placing it between his lips. He searched his pockets for a second before looking up at the sound of a match being struck and seeing the flame being offered to him. He hesitated a second before leaning forward and lighting off it, mumbling out, “Thanks,” before falling silent again. 

 

Charles smiled in response, quietly lighting another match for himself. He kept it for a moment before throwing it on the forest floor and snuffing it out, saving his fingertips from the flame.

 

“No problem.”

 

They stood, facing each other there in silence, the ends of their cigarettes alternately flaring bright red with each inhale and then mellowing on exhale. The woods were quiet, but instead of calming him down, Arthur grew increasingly restless. The silence they shared wasn’t the same as it usually was, warm and lazy. It felt strained at the edges, like one had to move it around carefully unless you wanted it to suddenly split at the seams, spilling all of  _ something  _ out into the open. He cleared his throat a couple times but whatever he was going to say died on his tongue when Charles looked up to meet him.

 

Finally, he got out, “What’s botherin’ you, Charles?”

 

He ashed his cigarette with a hum, keeping his eyes on Arthur.

 

“Been thinking about Micah.”

 

“Gettin' him? Yeah, I was thinkin’ about it earlier too. Might run on out and get it over with tomorrow mornin’, before anyones really awake.”

 

“You heard me when I said he was a snake, right?”

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“I meant it. Nothing good is going to come of letting that man back into camp. You’ve heard the poison he pours into Dutch’s ears- doesn’t make an ounce of sense. He got Jenny and Davey killed. Nearly got Sean killed too. You can see it in how he's blustering about right now- as if we can't see the bruises all over him and the blood caught in his eyes."

 

Arthur stared at the growing ash of his cigarette, holding it still between his fingers until it collapsed under its own weight and floated to the ground.

 

Softly, “You think I don’t know that? That Michah’s a rat bastard not worth the shit under anyone’s boots? That all he does is harass the women, pick fights he always loses and then sidle on up to Dutch like a wounded dog with another dumb as shit plan to get all of us caught up in the law yet again?”

 

Charles took another drag.

 

“Charles, you got to know this by now. That I don’t- I barely even tolerate that man. Most of the time I don’t. Almost broke his damn jaw last time we had an altercation.”

 

“Why didn’t you?” 

 

“The greasy bastard tripped on his own feet and fell on his ass before I could hit him.”

 

They laughed, cutting through the thick silence. It felt warmer again and Arthur smiled at the ever shrinking cigarette between his fingers, finally letting it go and crushing its faint ember out beneath a heel. 

 

“Mind if I take a puff off yours, Charles? They’re always sweeter’n the ones I get at the store.”

 

“Be my guest.”

 

He made to hand it across that small gap that separated them, ( _ It’s been coming to that more and more often, huh? A small gap to be bridged.)  _ before thinking better and moving to stand beside him.

 

Shoulders now touching, he again offered him the cigarette. The smoke trailing in the slight breeze was an odd mixture of sweet tobacco and tart bearberry; Arthur took it, careful not to crush the rolling paper as he did. 

 

Charles was warm against him and he savored it alongside the taste of the cigarette. He made to pass it back but Charles was already rolling another one, nudging him playfully before lighting it and exhaling off to the side.

 

“So, Arthur,” he cleared his throat against the sting of the tobacco before taking another drag, “if you know he’s worthless, and most of the gang agrees, why does he keep getting let back?”

 

“I ain’t got any control over that, Charles.”

 

The defensiveness that had laced his voice before had all but seeped out; he seemed more tired now, than anything else.

 

“And I think you know I don’t.” 

 

Arthur stared at the dark canopy mottled in shadows above them before taking another drag and exhaling into the night. The butt of his cigarette was the only bright thing to focus on, so focus on it he did, rolling it between his fingers and trying not to concentrate too hard on how Charles had used it before him. 

 

“Of course you have control, Arthur.”

 

Arthur didn’t answer, ashing the cigarette and taking another drag.

 

“You’re the one that’s going to get him back. You've got all the control in the world.”

 

Arthur glanced over at him and considered his next words very carefully. Charles didn't press, instead keeping his eyes coolly on the tree cover that hid them from the light of the waning moon. It wasn't near cold enough to see each other's breath, but his chest tightened and the simple sensation of breathing felt icier than it had before.

 

"I'll keep that in mind, Charles." 

 

Charles finished his cigarette with a hum and let it fall to the ground, joining the spent matches in being crushed beneath his boot.

 

"I'll see you back at camp, Arthur." 

 

He replied with a salute of his own diminishing smoke as Charles walked away. 

 

Bearberry and tobacco. He'd have to remember to pick some of these leaves next time he saw them. Maybe they grew near wild blackberry plants- seemed as likely a place to check as any.

 

Another puff and the cigarette was spent. He flicked it into the woods and watched as its arc disappeared into shadow. 

 

He considered going back to camp, but the idea now slowly rolling around in his head kept him firmly rooted to the ground. His fingers drumming against his satchel, he said to the empty air, "That is quite the concept." 

☼

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not heat flames up and consumes,  
> Not sea-waves hurry in and out,  
> Not the air delicious and dry, the air of ripe summer, bears lightly  
> along white down-balls of myriads of seeds,  
> Wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop where they may;  
> Not these, O none of these more than the flames of me, consum-  
> ing, burning for his love whom I love, []


End file.
